Episode 6.11 Waking the Dead

By Soundingsea

Saint Petersburg, 1896

Darla leaned out of the arched stone window into the darkness, a soft flurry of snow collecting around her and blowing into the opulent suite. The air outside was crisp, the kind of cold that would raise the blood in human cheeks and turn them rosy and flushed. Darla's face, of course, retained its accustomed untouched creamy pallor.

Drusilla came up behind her, embracing Darla's corseted waist with a slender arm and pressing their bodies together. Drusilla whispered in Darla's ear, "Do you see what I see?"

A bemused smile played across Darla's mouth. "Likely not. I see only the park, with the wrought-iron street lamps casting their electric glow over the skaters on the pond. These Russians do so enjoy their winter sports."

Drawing Darla away from the window, Drusilla spun her around. "I see mummies and daddies and precious children, dancing 'round hand in hand, waiting for our family to join theirs." Drusilla sashayed to an inaudible rhythm, keeping time with her words, and then moved faster still in a giddy dance lacking defined steps.

Languidly reclining on a couch nearby, Angelus and Spike watched in amusement.

"Happy tonight, our girls are." Spike grinned. "Dru's right chipper."

Angelus nodded. "Darla should be, too. This hotel is the finest available, with a stunning view of the city as well as delicious hors d'oeuvres on ice."

"Not that there was anything wrong with the first three hotels," Spike said, rolling his eyes.

"That's Darla," Angelus agreed, shaking his head with equal parts admiration and exasperation.

Drusilla twirled Darla around in a madcap fashion, leg-of-mutton sleeves and fur stoles all akimbo. Their heavy woolen skirts rippled out in generous pleats, catching Drusilla's feet and depositing her on the thick Persian carpet.

Paying better heed to her balance, Darla managed to avoid the floor and instead collapsed, laughing, onto a chaise lounge. Drusilla quickly curled up at her feet, her head resting in Darla's lap.

"You dance for any reason, or for no reason at all," Darla mused, stroking Drusilla's hair.

Drusilla hummed high and clear, voicing a wordless tune. "I always hear music."

Reaching for a loose ribbon that threatened to slip out of Drusilla's long locks, Darla said, "Your pretty hair is all mussed. Let me fix it."

"You take such care of me." Drusilla smiled, blissful as a kitten, and slowly, deliberately licked Darla's hand.

Darla removed the ribbon, smoothing Drusilla's hair and working the tangles out. "How can I tie this with you licking me?"

"You taste of family, of salt and bright pennies," Drusilla replied. Lifting her head, she nibbled delicately on Darla's index finger.

Angelus rose, remarking, "Those skaters will tire soon enough; we should go eat before the tastiest morsels have been tucked into bed."

"Plenty of night ahead, and it's getting interesting here," Spike said. "No hurry, mate." He turned his attention back to the girls, propping himself up on his elbows and avidly watching their playful interaction.

"This city is known for its 'white nights' in the summer." Angelus reached for the gray worsted frock coat that lay draped on a delicately carved table near the couch. Smoothing the coat over his frame and straightening his scarf, he added, "During these long winter nights, we will turn the snow red."

---

Los Angeles, 2005

Drusilla stood on a rooftop in the driving rain. Hair bedraggled, clothes drenched, to any observer she would have looked the very picture of abject misery. But she was alone, with no one to see her plight.

The wind chilled her, whipping her embroidered black satin gown around her thin frame. She shivered and leaned into the scant shelter provided by a brick chimney. Her hands shook, and she muttered incomprehensibly under her breath, but her gaze was steady as she stared across the street.

Opposite her rooftop perch, an old-fashioned theater marquee was lit with a flickering floodlight. The mismatched letters read "Angel Incestigations: Servicing Families".

---

Watch the Credits

• Episode 6.11: Waking the Dead
• Written by: Soundingsea
• Edited by: Sluggirl
• Produced by: Flaming Muse and The Brat Queen

---

Angel stormed into the Walden, slamming the front doors open and stomping through. "This is it. I've had enough," he muttered, tossing his ax into a corner.

"You've had enough?" Gunn followed Angel in through the heavy old doors, continuing, "I was the one fending them off when you froze up. Just be glad they ran off when I wounded one. Cowardly critters." He strode over to the weapons cabinet and took a rag to his own ax.

Clipping a pen to a folded section of the newspaper, Spike shoved it under a glossy insert. He tilted his stool back, balancing against the counter. "Get into a bit of a pickle, then? Shouldn't have gone haring off without backup."

Angel scowled at him but couldn't muster up real malice. "Backup. Yeah. That would have been just great." Shrugging out of his leather jacket, Angel began scraping slime off of the sleeves.

Spike's amusement softened to something like concern when he saw the blood on Angel's shirt. "Your neck's in a bad way." He tilted his head, considering Angel's wound. "Forget how to duck, did you?"

Angel shot him a wordless glare, then gave up his leather-cleaning attempt as fruitless. He tossed the jacket onto the concession stand next to the TV, atop the jumbled newspaper sections.

"Watch the paper, mate!" Spike grabbed the newspaper, moving it into slime-free territory.

"I would have been available for their reckless sojourn," Illyria offered from her perch on the stairs, "but I was constrained first by the curious human custom of 'dinner reservations' and then by this one's questions about nine-letter words meaning vile." The disdain in her tone conveyed that she would apply that description to everyone in sight.

Spike shot Illyria a warning glance and gestured for silence. "Shh, no crossword talk," he murmured.

"You are indecisive," said Illyria with a shake of her head. "Before the others arrived, you wished to discuss the code words on that page."

"Not like we had to go right then," Gunn said. "Waste of daylight, following - make that trying to follow these guys around in the sewers."

Angel rolled his eyes and leaned against the counter. "Kinda have to take the sewers during the day if they're going where we can't follow in the car - "

"Should have done more reconnaissance and then fought them above ground after dark." Gunn frowned, adding, "Sheer luck, and I'm not talking the good kind, that a couple of them found us."

Through clenched teeth, Angel continued, " - and kinda in a bad mood here, what with the slit throat. Their claws were oozing some sort of slime, and this cut itches."

"Maybe the nasty critters wouldn't have taken a bite out of Mr. Crime-fighter if you'd had more help," said Spike.

"Gunn said you told him to bugger off when he tried to wake you," Angel replied wearily, shuffling through the scattered newspaper sections.

"Was sleeping off a hangover," Spike explained. "A bloke's not exactly at his best, evening after. But you didn't have to take off when you did - "

Angel held up a folded newspaper section with a pen inside. "And since when do you do my crossword puzzle?"

Spike, talking over Angel, continued, " - and leave me to sit and listen to Rhapsody in Blue - " At Illyria's look, he took a more conciliatory tone. " - which was delightful. No complaints here."

"Yeah, I feel for you," Angel said absently as he picked up Spike's pen and looked over the half-finished crossword. "Meanwhile, we were the lucky ones in the sewers, splashing through yesterday's rain. And a demon sliced through the collar on my shirt!" Setting down the paper, Angel slumped onto a stool, his shoulders echoing the dejection in his tone. "I liked this shirt."

"How could you tell it apart from all of the other black ones?" Spike asked, looking over Angel's shoulder at the crossword.

"Loathsome," Illyria commented.

Checking the display on his cell phone, Gunn said, "Yeah, the fabulous sewers where I don't get reception and miss important calls. Wait. Who's loathsome?"

Spike sighed, saying, "14 Across is, and I should have sussed that out on my own. Thanks, Blue."

Gunn shot a cranky look at Angel, continuing, "Not like you would care about missed calls; you don't even use your cell, judging by yesterday."

"12 Down's wrong, ya git!" Spike said. "Give me that pen."

"I had it on," Angel replied to Gunn. "I was just ignoring you. And no, Spike, you've lost your crossword privileges."

Gunn covered one ear and held his phone to the other, listening intently. With a smile of recognition, he nodded and slid the phone into his pocket. "Okay, Spike, new mission. You my guy?"

Reaching across the counter to Angel's slime-covered jacket, Spike pulled a set of keys from a pocket. "Hell, yeah."

"It's dark out!" Angel protested. "You don't need the necro-tempered glass!"

"Ah, but, we do need the great sound system," Spike replied, shrugging into his duster.

"See, Anne is an old friend," Gunn explained. "We go way back. She needs help, I'm there for her."

"Easy on the eyes, too, I'm guessing?" Spike asked with a grin. "Charlie, you are the James T. Kirk of Team Angel."

As Spike reached for the door on the left, Gunn laughed and exited through the one on the right. "Spike, you'll love her -" Gunn continued, his voice trailing off as the closing doors muffled the sound.

Watching them depart, Angel gave an exasperated sigh. He turned to glare at the slime covering his favorite ax before scratching the cut on his neck again.

Illyria's voice rang out in the suddenly quiet lobby. "Tedious."

"What?" Angel looked up to see Illyria perched on Spike's stool, blue head bent over the crossword puzzle. "Oh."

"Frustrating," Illyria said in a flat tone, inscribing precise characters with the pen.

"Tedious and frustrating. Pretty much sums up my night. Got an 'annoying' in there?"

With an unblinking stare, Illyria considered Angel carefully before declaring, "You do not instill the proper attitude of worship in your followers. It is no surprise that they do not heed you."

Angel sighed. "I know there's no use in comparing and contrasting leadership styles with you, but they aren't my followers. They're my friends. Well, not Spike. But you gotta love family, even when they conspire with your friends to be a pain in your ass."

---

Connor walked briskly through the largely deserted office building, trying to look as though he belonged there. Passing a supply cart, he grabbed some empty manila envelopes and held them up to his chest. They helped to cover up his Cowboy Bebop t-shirt, but his vintage Levis were still conspicuous. And his combat boots didn't exactly say 'dressed for success.'

That squeak, though, wasn't his boots. It sounded like there was another service cart on this floor, and this one was moving. Connor looked up and down the hallway, seeing no cleaning staff yet. He tried the nearest door. Of course, it was locked, and he sighed.

The squeal of wheels in severe need of oil was getting closer, and there were no other doors nearby. Connor shook his head and twisted the door handle, breaking the lock. He hadn't gone there to engage in wanton destruction of property, but he didn't need to cause a scene. Closing the door behind him, he hoped this room wasn't on tonight's Evil Law Firm cleaning schedule.

Maybe the really comfortable-looking leather chairs were evil too, but Connor sat in one anyway, canting back and resting his crossed feet on the smooth surface of the polished wood conference table. Why did the forces of good invariably have rickety wooden stools instead of executive chairs? Scratch that, why didn't his Intro Bio auditorium have seating like this? It would almost make up for the fact he'd dropped Movies for Credit. Go sensible college guy. He sighed again.

Looking around the room, he noticed that the decor was understated but tasteful, with that muted elegance that said money. Nothing said 'world domination' or 'ruining this dimension, one soul at a time.' But then he caught sight of the whiteboard.

"Maximizing synergies while leveraging assets," he read aloud. He shuddered. Now that was diabolical.

The shuffling stride of the custodial worker and the squeak of the cart muffled the words that echoed in the hallway beyond the conference room door. "Yog-Sothoth, guardian of the gate. Time out of mind, R'lyeh shall arise and lay waste..." The dire pronouncements became indecipherable as the cart passed around a corner and out of earshot.

Poking his head out and ascertaining that the hallway was once again deserted, Connor slipped out and headed in the opposite direction. After break rooms, cubicles, and more conference rooms and offices, he came at length to the door embossed 'Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.'

Stepping inside and closing the door behind him, Connor leaned back against it, hands in his pockets. He cleared his throat and tried to sound cool, but managed only an awkward cough before saying, "So... how's it going? Hey, nice office."

Wesley, who seemed absorbed in his reading material, looked up with a start. "Connor!" He frowned, but his words were tinged with concern rather than ire. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, just stopping by," Conner said with a weak smile. "Checking the place out on my way back from campus."

Wesley shook his head. "Your father doesn't consider this to be the best place for you, and I must say I'm inclined to agree with him."

Connor had expected as much. "My father is why I'm here. I want to talk with you about him."

The corners of Wesley's mouth twitched a little. "And you thought that my evil lair would be a better venue than the theater?"

Connor smiled. "Lot less chance of interruption here."

"Indeed," Wesley said, sweeping his arm toward the guest chairs.

Connor dropped his backpack on one of them, and then on an impulse he perched on Wesley's desk, sitting cross-legged and leaning his elbows on his knees. "So, I want to know more about my father," Connor said firmly.

A raised eyebrow his only comment on Connor's choice of seating, Wesley said, "So you have questions about Angel? Perfectly understandable, but I'm not sure I'm - "

Connor smiled brightly. "You've known him longer than anyone else has. I figured you could give me the inside scoop."

Wesley was silent for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, before parting his lips as if to speak.

"So, yeah, stuff I want to know." Connor steepled his hands, leaning his chin on them. "Who he really is, what makes him tick, what goes on behind the dorky grin, why he got me historical war-gaming miniatures for Christmas..."

Wesley smiled at that last question. "Those miniatures were brilliant. How long did that battle scene stay under the tree?"

"Until Spike got tired of stepping on them. Now, I want the dirt." Connor grinned and waited, hopeful.

"I've known your father for a number of years, indeed, and worked by his side nearly as long. Once known as the Scourge of Europe, he embarked upon a personal journey of -".

"No, no," Connor said, waving his hands. "I mean, you know, what was he like. Who is he?"

Wesley's eyes grew thoughtful for a long moment before he looked back at Connor and said, "Mine is only one perspective, but I can attempt to answer your questions."

---

With a flourish and a spin of the steering wheel, Spike backed the Viper up against a hand-troweled plaster wall, parking under an elaborate wrought-iron fire escape stairway that climbed the side of the four-story structure.

Gunn hopped out of the passenger side. "What a waste of quality bass. Did we have to listen to the Dead Kennedys the whole way?"

"Whatever, Mr. Operettas," Spike retorted as they entered the terracotta-roofed building and he took in the spacious, well-lit interior. "And this is some soup kitchen, Charlie-boy. So where's your friend?"

Gunn looked around the busy room filled with teenagers and then waved to a pretty blonde who appeared no older than the rest. "Annie!"

Standing behind a large desk, she was frantically signing papers and handing them to one teen while conversing with some others. She paused when she heard her name, giving Spike an odd, perplexed look before hurrying over to Gunn.

"Charles! Haven't seen you since the Christmas dinner over at Open Hearts and Hands!" she exclaimed as they shared a warm hug.

"Yeah. Like what you've done with this new space for the teen center. Far cry from the pile of boxes last time I was here," Gunn said, drawing away.

"Took us a while to unpack," Anne said ruefully. "You never realize how much stuff you have until it's all in boxes. Definitely appreciated the moving help last spring."

Gunn smiled. "So I got your message, and, hey, brought my man Spike."

"Hello, cutie. Charlie-boy says you're our damsel in distress." Spike gave Anne a slow, admiring look. "You seem quite capable to me."

Anne looked at Spike, puzzled. "Do I know you?"

Spike shrugged. "Don't think so."

"We've definitely met." Anne furrowed her brow and touched her lower lip in concentration. "Was it through LA Teen HIV Outreach?"

"Not likely," said Spike, shaking his head. "Had my fill of hanging around teenagers, couple of years back."

Anne smiled a bright, unfettered smile, reminding Spike a bit of Buffy in an unguarded moment. "I've got it. You sang in the Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles - "

"What?" Spike interrupted her. "No musical extravaganzas. Always end in heartbreak," he said, before continuing with false cheer, "Let's see, maybe we met through Wolfram & Hart? Or at that nice little after-hours club on Pico? You friends with Harmony? Pretty blonde chit, used to work for Angel? Vampire, of course."

Anne's eyes flashed as she backed away from Spike. "Now I remember. Spike. Sunnydale." She stepped behind her desk, fumbling in a drawer.

Gunn sighed. "Sunnydale? Never good."

Finding the weapon she sought, with one swift, economical motion Anne brought both hands up toward Spike.

---

"See, this is like old times: walking the streets of the city, feeling its pulse, hearing the clip-clop of a horse-drawn hansom cab." Angel strode confidently through the poorly-lit alley that was the best short-cut to the nearest store.

Walking at his side, Illyria sniffed. "I see no enslaved animals doing your species' bidding. My nose is assaulted by the detritus of your dissolute civilization. And would you truly walk for nostalgia's sake if you had your automobile?"

"Spike had no reason to take my car," Angel said with a scowl. "He did that just to annoy me. It's like he lives, well, okay, not lives, but exists, just to drive me insane."

"Why do you perceive every occurrence to be about you? You are not the center of every thought, the reason for every choice." Illyria turned her head to gaze at him scornfully.

Angel looked mildly offended. "I'm not saying it's all about me. Lots of things aren't about me." He cast about for an example and heard a faint siren in the distance. "See? Trouble. Trouble not involving me. Let's check it out."

They followed the sound down a few blocks, past the barred windows, graffiti, and scattered trash that suggested that this area was desolate even at high noon. Approaching from the darkness of the alley, they crept up behind a parked police cruiser.

Peering over the car's hood, they saw a lone figure lying on the ground, surrounded by police and emergency staff. The scent of blood was strong in the air.

"What is the purpose of all this fanfare?" asked Illyria. "One pathetic human does not warrant such a commotion."

Angel looked around at the crime scene delimited by bright yellow tape and attended by two police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens whirring.

"It's just the way people do things these days. Lots more fuss over every death than there used to be," Angel replied. "And try to keep it down, unless you want them asking you questions."

An officer glanced in their direction, and they ducked, watching the action through the car's windows.

"My answers would change their insignificant lives," Illyria retorted, although her voice was a bit quieter than before.

In the midst of the confusion, a medical technician spoke into a two-way radio, saying, "It's a clean slice. Massive blood loss."

Finding the view through the windows to be unsatisfactory, Illyria and Angel glanced around the side of the police car. Angel watched with some interest as the EMTs lifted the victim on a stretcher. His neck was heavily bandaged, and his shaggy dark hair fell in disarray around a pale, heavy-browed, square-jawed face.

"That pitiful creature bears a more than passing resemblance to you," Illyria said in a low tone.

Angel motioned her back into the darkness of the alley. "No, he doesn't. My hair doesn't look anywhere near that stupid." At least he hoped not; it was hard to be sure without a reflection.

"When worlds bowed before me, none would have dared contradict my statements," Illyria said. "These latter days are a veritable flood of impudence."

"You're the one who decided to come pick up more coffee with me," Angel pointed out. "My errand, my rules."

"Be that as it may, this excursion bores me." Illyria stood up straight. "Your lurking about does not produce more coffee, nor does it amuse me. I will find my own entertainment."

Angel watched Illyria stalk away. "Fine, not like I need her, anyway," he muttered. "I can find out what's going on myself, even if this thing is itching like crazy." He irritably scratched the healing gash in his throat. "Wait a minute..."

Throat. Gash. Those multi-clawed demons must have claimed another victim, even though he was some distance from the neighborhood where they'd been lurking before; it was just about the opposite direction from where Angel and Gunn had encountered the demons in the sewers.

Perhaps they were expanding their range. Angel set off, his stride filled with renewed purpose.

---

"Anne, no!" Gunn said hastily. "He's one of the good guys now. Got a soul and everything."

Anne looked suspiciously at Spike. "Really? Because the last time we met he locked me in a basement and left me to die. Do the good guys do that?"

"No." Gunn winced. "Well, maybe sometimes. But the point is Spike's okay."

"So Charles here vouches for you." Anne gestured with the gun in her hand. "Another vampire with a soul. You obsessed with evil lawyers, like the other one used to be?"

"Don't care one whit about lawyers, evil or otherwise. And I've reformed my wicked ways since last we met." Spike gave a faint shudder. "Had plenty of bad karma come back on me in basements, too."

"Basements, definitely no fun," Gunn agreed. He exhaled in relief when Anne lowered the gun; last thing he needed was a cranky, bullet-ridden vampire.

"You know, Annie Oakley," Spike said in an amused tone, "a stake's going to serve you better than a gun."

Raising the pistol again, Anne shook it, revealing the truth. "Drips a little. Shoddy molded plastic. But as long as it propels holy water, it's pretty useful."

"Or dangerous," Spike said, eying the trail of water on Anne's hand.

Anne smiled, saying, "I should have known Gunn's new sidekick would be a vamp."

"I'm not a bloody sidekick!" Spike protested.

"He's technically Angel's old sidekick," Gunn said.

Spike snorted and turned away. "Not hardly."

Gunn shot Anne a knowing smile. "He's sensitive about it."

Anne looked penitent, though laughter still danced behind her eyes. She looked back at Spike and said, "Okay, sorry, sorry..." She paused as she watched him wander over to the other side of the room. "Hey! Those are for the homeless kids!"

Spike grinned, stuffing another chocolate chip cookie into his mouth and talking around it. "Hey, public place, open invite, tasty cookies."

"Could you at least not talk with your mouth full?" Gunn asked.

Spike cocked an eyebrow and bit into another cookie in response.

Gunn shook his head and turned to Anne, lowering his voice and asking in a more confidential tone, "So, what's this urgent reason you wanted me to come and bring a friend? Danger? Demons?"

Anne sighed, saying, "My volunteers for the shelter outreach program didn't bother showing up tonight. And their phones are going right to voice-mail."

"So you called a detective agency," Gunn said. "You want us to track these baddies down? Spike and I brought weapons. They're in the car. Though, villains of the non-supernatural variety? Maybe a case for the regular police."

"Shirking volunteer duty's not a crime, and I'm hardly going to call the cops anyhow," Anne said with a shudder. "They're trouble even when they're not zombies."

"Ok, so what can I do to help?" Gunn asked.

Anne reached behind the desk and handed Gunn a basket of clean laundry. He held it with an uncertain grasp and looked between it and her.

"I'm so glad you two showed up," Anne said. "I'm swamped, and the kids will really appreciate spending time with some responsible, kind guys who can be good role models. Plus, there's lots of work piled up."

"Not what I was thinking, but sure. Happy to help, Annie," Gunn said. "I don't know about Spike, though..."

Gunn glanced over and saw Spike standing surrounded by teens.

"See, you need to pinch the tip to leave room," Spike was saying. "Then roll the condom out slowly..."

A girl tittered and said something muffled.

Spike replied, "Sure, I'll demonstrate. Wanna grab me a banana from that plate with the fruit and cookies? Actually, why don't we all get bananas? And maybe a beer to help get us in the mood..."

Gunn glanced back at Anne and shook his head.

Anne merely smiled and resumed sorting through her paperwork, saying, "As long as he's not serious about the alcohol, it looks like your friend will work out just fine."

---

"Angel's dedication to his mission of helping the forces of good was evident from the beginning," said Wesley, clearly warming to the topic.

"You said something about meeting at some cheesy small-town bar. Was there evil afoot?" Connor snickered at his next thought. "Was it speed-dating night or something?"

Wesley shook his head. "We were at the bar in pursuit of our common goal of aiding the Slayer. Slayers." Wesley waved aside Connor's puzzled look. "Later that year, we formed Angel Investigations here in Los Angeles."

"So you decided to work together again? After the Slayer sent him to hell?" Connor leaned back on an elbow and dangled one leg over the edge of the desk. He figured he might as well let Wesley know that he wasn't coming into this little chat cold.

Wesley raised an eyebrow and said, "Your sources are incomplete. Angel was sent to a hell dimension by the Slayer before he and I met."

"Oh. I met her, didn't I? Brown hair, curvy, cute, hit really hard?" And even that last was really hot, Connor added mentally.

"You met Faith; I was referring to Buffy," Wesley clarified. "The Slayer situation was convoluted then and is only more so now."

"Interesting," Connor said, although his tone of voice made it evident that he didn't really think so. "Let's stick to the basics. So, back from hell, Angel's on Team Slayer and so are you, and you open a branch office together. Sounds like you hit it off from the beginning."

"Not as such. Our early history - well, all of our history - is complicated." An indecipherable expression crossed across Wesley's face. "But I can assure you that Angel is a true hero, one who gives without considering the personal cost." He leaned forward, emphasizing his statement with a resolute gaze.

"So if Angel's such a stand-up guy, why did you take me away from him?" Connor thought he saw a crack in Wesley's facade, naked pain under that carefully controlled exterior. It was there only for an instant, though, before his expression was neutral once more.

"For his own good, and yours," Wesley's gaze did not waver as he continued. "As distasteful and ultimately ill-advised as my actions were, I intended them to protect you both."

"So the end justifies the means?" Connor shook his head, trying to understand. He twisted the denim at his knees between nervous fingers, trying not to let the layers of conflicting emotion tear at him.

"Sometimes," Wesley said. Then, perhaps seeing Connor's discomfort at the idea, added, "but if we're moving into the realm of tired aphorisms, I find 'love conquers all' to be a bit more pleasant. More optimistic, certainly."

Connor let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Do you think that's true?"

"I think it's true for your father," Wesley replied. "At least as far as you're concerned."

"I still don't really understand." Connor leaned in, looking Wesley in the eyes. "Why?"

A woman's voice rang out, her tones polished but scornful. "Well, isn't this a delightful sight? Lion, lamb, and all that."

---

"Ok, who's helping me fold towels?" Gunn asked, gesturing for two teenaged boys to make room for him on the couch.

"We look like somebody's mama?" retorted the younger boy, kicking the basket.

Gunn fixed him with a firm stare. "Annie sure as hell isn't doing all this work; your arms aren't broken."

"You can't tell me what to do," the boy said sullenly. "I ain't no girlie-man, doing laundry for you."

"Now look here, a real man can take care of himself." Gunn folded a towel neatly, setting it on the arm of the sofa. "I'm Gunn. Charles Gunn. You?"

"I'm Anton, and that there's my little brother Marcel. He got no respect," said the older boy, picking up a towel.

From the center of a crowd of tittering girls, Spike called, "Anne, love, we're running low on condoms. And I didn't keep any. Know better now, after the cookie drama!"

Anne smiled and grabbed a cardboard box from a cupboard behind her desk. Gunn watched as she brought the box to Spike, pausing to connect with each teen she encountered as she crossed the room.

"You really don't need to give personal demonstrations to each kid, Spike," she said with an air of mock exasperation.

"Public safety and then balloon animals," Spike replied. "Covering all my bases."

Anne laughed and shook her head, handing over the new box of condoms.

Turning his attention back to the laundry, Gunn was glad to see that the boys were making progress in folding it. "It's not all work here. You get any cookies?"

Anton said, "Go get a couple. No, make that three." He nudged Marcel affectionately and watched him cross the room to the group around Spike.

Gunn smiled wistfully. "So, you take care of your brother, then?"

"Yeah, we just have each other. You have any brothers or sisters?"

"I had a sister." Gunn bent his head over a towel, folding it precisely. "She didn't make it. Now, I just got my cousins in the neighborhood."

"Rough break, man," Anton said sympathetically, his eyes flickering to Marcel as the younger boy returned with half a dozen cookies in hand.

"Your white-boy friend says for you to eat up," Marcel said in a remarkably less sullen fashion as he distributed cookies and they all began eating them.

"What, he didn't send any condoms for me?" Gunn joked, earning a smile from both boys.

"Naw, he says you don't get none. I took some, though," Marcel said, beaming.

"You should give those to me, bro," Anton urged. "And hey! Don't get crumbs on that clean pillowcase." With Marcel on one end and Gunn on the other, the last sheet fell into precise, crisp folds. Marcel dropped it atop the pile of linens, a look of satisfaction on his face.

"Hey, Anton?" Gunn pushed the basket toward him. "How about you take this basket upstairs? Marcel, you can help him put them away."

---

No sirens led Angel to the next victim, but rather the scent of blood in the air, acrid and copper, cooling and wasted. Disgusted with himself, he banished that last thought to the deep reaches of his mind as quickly as he was able.

Angel looked down at the body, shaking his head. "Poor bastard. Guess they sliced you a bit deeper than they did me."

The slight man crumpled on the ground in the alley was wearing a trench-coat and carrying an umbrella. Streetlights, dampened by the mist, reflected off the corpse's pale hair. Blood shone darkly in a sharp line across his neck.

"Maybe taking a shortcut home, worried about the rain starting again but unwilling to pay for a cab?" Angel mused aloud. "Not the best idea in this town."

Angel shook his head and looked around. There was no sign of the demons anywhere. Wandering aimlessly didn't seem to be the most effective search method; he needed help.

He fumbled with his cell phone and pulled up Spike's number before changing his mind and scrolling to Gunn's. Then he shook his head, muttering, "No, I've got a better idea." He put the phone away and strode off.

---

Wesley realized that while Connor had closed the door he must not have locked it. Johanna stood smirking in the doorway.

"Connor, it's time for you to leave," Wesley said, gently but firmly adding, "Now." Heeding the somber tone in Wesley's statement, Connor seemed to realize that their conversation was over. He slid off the desk without protest.

"Okay, later. And I really do mean that," Connor said, retrieving his backpack from the chair and heading for the door.

"Indeed," agreed Wesley.

Connor looked over his shoulder at Wesley as he headed out. The open pleasure with which the boy had discussed Angel was now replaced by a shuttered expression before the young man disappeared down the hall. Wesley turned his attention to the agent of Connor's departure.

"Is there a purpose to your interruption of my meeting?" Wesley asked.

Gliding forward, Johanna sat in one of the guest chairs Connor had eschewed. "So nice that you're able to play beneficent uncle, dispensing wisdom to the boy."

"Glad you think so," Wesley said in a tone that made it clear he was anything but.

"These dalliances with Angel and his people, though, are self-indulgent. You know there's a price." Johanna crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair, self-satisfied.

"Haven't I paid enough?" Wesley asked wryly.

Johanna shook her head. "This isn't about your suffering, it's about Angel's."

Wesley schooled his face into a neutral expression. "You don't think seeing his closest friend working for his dire enemies adds that extra zest to all his suffering?"

"You have a job to do," replied Johanna. "See that you do it, or the Senior Partners will bring other resources to bear on this problem."

"I am carrying out my obligations," Wesley stated calmly.

"The Senior Partners do not feel you have done enough." Johanna uncrossed her legs and crossed them on the other side, a motion that Lilah would have imbued with sensual grace. Johanna, on the other hand, seemed to be conveying the ire of the Senior Partners through the clipped economy of her movements.

Wesley sighed. "It's late, Johanna, and I suddenly find myself quite tired. I trust that you can show yourself out."

He collected his blazer and briefcase and walked out past her without further comment or exchange. In Wesley's estimation, Wolfram & Hart had never adequately replaced the late lamented Lilah Morgan.

---

Anne sat at her desk, sorting document after tedious document while listening half-heartedly to the minor commotion inherent in bedtime. After sending some of the boys upstairs with more laundry, Gunn came over and pulled up a chair.

"I really admire your dedication to the mission," Gunn said sincerely. "All these years, you just keep on helping these kids with a smile on your face."

Anne set down her pen, flexing her hand and wincing as it cramped.

"It's really rewarding, Charles," she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "Sure, you fight those big battles, but we've got little ones here every day. I can look people in the eyes and know I'm making a difference in their lives."

"I'm thinking I'm glad, now, that you didn't call with the usual kind of trouble," Gunn said. "This straight-up do-gooding? A fellow could get used to it."

"Seems like Spike is an old hand at it," Anne said. "Look, he's got those kids enthralled with some sort of story."

Gunn chuckled. "Knowing Spike, it's probably rated R for strong sexual content." Then Gunn sighed, leaning in and speaking in a more serious tone. "I'm trying to keep that in sight. The doing good, not the sex, I mean."

"Nothing wrong with sex," Anne teased. "Perfectly healthy."

"Hey, you gotta meet my girl Gwen," Gunn replied. "She's all in tune with her girl power, believe you me." He grinned.

"So things are going pretty well in your life?" asked Anne. "Better than last year, sounds like. More helpless-helping, less evil?"

"Personally, I'm doing okay." Gunn sighed, drumming his fingers against the desk. "Angel Inc., though? Not so much. Kinda think the boss-man is distracted by these mind games Wolfram & Hart's been playing."

"Still that law firm? How many years has it been?" Anne asked with an amused roll of her eyes.

"Far too many," Gunn said, shaking his head. "And we're talking impaired judgment, ludicrous conclusions, serious levels of obsession. Lost his sense of purpose."

"Do I hear dissatisfaction in the ranks?" Spike asked, coming up alongside Anne's desk.

"Just your garden variety 'the boss has gone off the deep end' angst." Gunn sighed.

Spike shook his head. "Oh, he can get much worse than this. He's just feeling a mite tetchy lately."

Anne laughed. "Tetchy? Is that a word? You Brits."

Spike smirked and performed a sweeping bow before affecting a flat American drawl. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week. Enjoy the buffet."

With a grin, Gunn asked, "So, you done corrupting the youth of America?"

"Right. Thinking of heading out, unless you need anything more, maybe?" Spike asked Anne. "They seem to be putting themselves to bed."

"Thanks so much for the help, Spike. I take back half the threats," Anne said with a smile. "You obviously have a lot of experience dealing with teenagers; I'm glad you decided to stick around despite having had your fill in the past."

"No worries, then. Gunn, you coming?" Spike asked.

"Naw, I'm going to stick around and chat with Annie a bit longer," Gunn replied.

"I need to run by the store tonight anyhow," Anne said. "I can drop Gunn off."

"Good night, then," Spike said and turned for the door with a swirl of his long leather coat.

"Take care," Anne said, waving at his retreating figure.

"And that," Gunn said with a resigned smile, "is our Spike."

---

When Spike arrived at the Walden, the entry doors were ajar. Illyria was sitting on the front steps, looking off into the misty distance.

"Waiting up for me, pet?" He grinned, arching an eyebrow. "If you want Gunn, it may be a bit. He's off at a teen center, catching up on old times with his bestest pal we've never met."

"Your memories stretch back only a paltry length of time," Illyria sniffed.

"Yeah, ancient primordial whatever." Spike sighed. "You've mentioned it once or a million times."

"My origins are nothing like those of lesser beings," Illyria said haughtily. "You surround yourselves with unnecessary companions and incomprehensible family structures. It is all folly."

Spike shook his head. "Family has its moments; when you're alone -"

Illyria stopped him with an imperiously raised hand. "We will not continue this conversation at this time."

Spike tilted his head, puzzled. "This, when I listened to you prattle on about your new boy-toy? So, see, Gunn's friend. I knew this girl from back Sunnydale way. Blast from the bloody - "

Illyria shook her head as if to say 'told you so' when a swaying figure appeared behind her in the doorway.

Spike finished his sentence, articulating the word almost as a gasp, " - past. Hello, Dru."

---

Wesley walked in through the front door of his penthouse apartment.

"Figured I'd come over to your apartment this time, skip the office visit," said Angel, who was sitting on Wesley's couch.

Wesley turned on the light in his living room and smiled at him. "While I recall saying you're always welcome here, I suspect you didn't need an invitation due to my deceased status."

Angel nodded. "That's probably true. Guess it's too late to test that theory, unless you want me to call Spike. Which, on second thought, no." He grimaced at the notion.

Smiling faintly, Wesley agreed, "No use having a secret rendezvous if you invite on-lookers. Though if we keep meeting like this, people might well suspect we're having a scandalous affair." He set his briefcase on an end-table and divested himself of his sporty blazer, draping it over a chair-back.

Angel shifted in his seat. "Well, we could have met at the Walden, but I kind of wanted to work this problem just with you." When Wesley raised an eyebrow, Angel continued, "Okay, okay. Everybody else has a thing."

Wesley nodded solemnly. "And we know all about these... things."

"Plus, I kinda wanted to see your place. Penthouse. It's... nice." Angel looked around at the mahogany bookshelves and ancient weaponry that decorated the walls. "Kind of like your old place, only pricier. And, you know, evil."

Wesley made himself comfortable on a soft brown leather armchair. "Actually if you'd met my former landlady, you might not find the evil to be that new. On the other hand, this place came with digital cable and a DVR at no extra cost."

"I always wanted one of those." Angel sat back on the couch, trying to picture how he would arrange things if he owned the place. "Be able to watch hockey whenever you want, never have to watch another commercial again..."

"Angel?" Wesley gave him a bemused look, nodding towards the clock as a way to remind him to stop wasting time.

"Yeah, right." Angel shook himself out of his reverie. "I thought I'd come see what you thought about these demons we've been tracking. The gang and I were cleaning up a rough part of town last night, and we heard reports of long-clawed oozing demons. This afternoon Gunn and I ended up finding some of them in the sewers. Well, okay, it was the kind of finding where they jumped us, but still."

Wesley nodded, reaching for a leather-bound tome, no doubt poised to question Angel about the demons, and Angel relaxed a bit, falling into the comfortable rhythm of research just like old times.

Angel continued, "Then later I was walking around thinking - "

Wesley interrupted, asking with gentle humor, "Would others of us have called it brooding?"

"Definitely not. Probably not. Okay, maybe I was brooding," Angel admitted. "And I saw some people who'd been attacked, and their wounds were similar to the one I got from the demons. Only slit throats are a little more fatal to humans."

With a look of concern, Wesley set aside the text and approached Angel. "You're hurt? Let me see." Wesley unbuttoned several buttons on Angel's shirt and spread the ruined collar wide, probing carefully with deft fingers. "You haven't cleaned or dressed this. And judging by the state of this collar, you haven't even changed."

"Doesn't matter. It will heal. My neck, that is," Angel clarified. "I'm pretty sure the shirt's a goner. And Nina picked this one. I have no idea where she got it."

Wesley's hands moved a bit lower, over the rough patches on the left side of Angel's chest, avoiding the brand which stood out in sharp relief.

"It seems your burns are healing, at the very least. I trust you've been using the aloe gel? Do you need more?"

Angel squirmed. "Not usually. I just don't remember."

Wesley tsked as he moved off to the suite's bathroom. "It's imperative that you take better care of yourself, Angel."

"I've got more important people to worry about," Angel retorted under his breath as he watched Wesley walk away.

Returning with a first-aid kit, Wesley soaked a small square of gauze in hydrogen peroxide, shaking his neck in mock annoyance as Angel wrinkled up his nose.

Wesley dabbed at Angel's neck, and Angel yelped. "That stings! You're worse than the demons. At least they did me the courtesy of numbing me a bit first."

Wesley seemed intrigued by that description. "Really? Could you describe these creatures in detail?"

---

"Spike." Drusilla approached Spike, touching his cheek gently with the back of one long-fingered hand. She fixed her eyes on him in that intense way she had, looking right into him. "Not my Spike any longer. But not hers, either. Do you scorn all you once loved?"

Wincing at her words, Spike replied vehemently, "Not so. Never stopped loving anyone once I started."

Drusilla seemed to accept that statement, though her eyes narrowed with a sudden thought. "You never loved Grand-mummy. I made her once more, holding her close as her heart slowed." She raised her voice accusingly, saying, "But you wouldn't come back with me, and I was not to find her again. Have you and the Angel-beast changed her, too?"

Illyria shook her head. "The creature has been carrying on in this fashion for an unreasonable length of time."

With a quick, pointed glance at Illyria, Spike replied to Drusilla's question. "Haven't seen Darla for years, Dru. What's got you all nostalgic, then?"

"Years fold in upon themselves!" Drusilla wailed, wringing her hands. "My family is taken away from me, broken into a thousand pieces. I can't fit the bits back into place."

"She asked me repeatedly about her family. I am certain she heeded none of my replies; I am nearly as certain she understood none of them," said Illyria, her words dripping with disdain.

"Dru isn't what you'd call logical, Blue. Let her be." Spike tilted his head. Though unfazed by Drusilla's shifting moods, he was perplexed by her presence. "Surprised to see you here, pet. Why're you all in a tizzy?"

"Not needed, not wanted, tangled up in mere memories. Am I - " Drusilla's voice broke in a hard sob. "Am I replaced, a wriggling insertion forcing me out, muted light shining to tell unwelcome truth?"

Despite all that had transpired in recent years, Spike couldn't help himself; Drusilla's sobs touched something deep inside him. Reaching out to her, he clasped her in his arms, soothing her cries and stroking her tangled hair. "Shhh."

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Drusilla shuddered in his embrace, keening, "You can't be family this way. You're lost. Lost..."

---

"You didn't have to stay and help me clean up," Anne said as she fished a sock out from under the couch.

Gunn held up an intricate balloon giraffe made of several inflated condoms. "Note to self," he said. "Never let Spike play with the supplies." Lifting a balloon poodle, he mimed cross-species mating. "Or I can't be held responsible for what I might do," he added, winking.

"Eee! Must be quiet. Sleeping... upstairs..." Anne dissolved into giggles.

"You never gave me a tour of the whole place," Gunn noted. "Is it all dormitory-style up there?" He lifted a small trash can and swept crumbs from a table into it.

"We've got a kitchen in the back on this floor. The second floor has a conference room and my actual office, and the top two floors have hostel-style rooms with bunk-beds and lockers."

Gunn whistled. "Kind of pricey, I bet."

Anne nodded. "We got a generous grant to allow us to sign a lease and move in, but it's a constant struggle to find funding for utilities, supplies, programming, food..."

"What kind of programming?" Gunn sorted playing cards and chips into neat piles before setting them into their boxes.

"Well, I've been wanting to start a self-defense class. Girls, boys, they all need to be able to take care of themselves," Anne explained. "I worry about them; when they're not here, they're so vulnerable."

"And it's just you here at night? You still sleeping in your office? Got a cot up there?" Gunn wondered.

"No, I didn't bring that with me, I swap off with some other folks, but I do pull a lot of overnights here," Anne admitted. "We close during midmorning to afternoon; I can go home and sleep then."

"Sounds like the crazy hours we keep in my line of work," Gunn said.

"At least this building is way closer to my postage-stamp-sized apartment," Anne said. "Took the lease over from a friend ages ago, and I've just never been motivated to find anything better."

"Sounds like you got plenty of motivation; it's just all directed at helping people," Gunn marveled.

Anne smiled. "It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it."

"Tough work, but from the gleam in your eyes, I'd say you love it," Gunn said.

"I really do," Anne agreed. "It's tiring, though. I've been working on these grant proposals; there are so many charitable organizations, and we're all fighting for the same dwindling resources."

"Hey, maybe I can help. Let me see your grant proposals," Gunn said. "All this insta-education's gotta be good for something."

---

Nodding along as Angel seemed to confirm his suspicions, Wesley briefly consulted his book of demon lore. "Well, that tears it. The Loppestre demons secrete a paralyzing agent in their claws. They introduce it into the bloodstream of their victims and then carry them back to their nest. Their digestive process is particularly interesting - "

"Well, it looks like they weren't very good at it. The carrying off of their prey, I mean. Not sure about the digestion, and I don't really want to know." Angel shuddered.

"What do you mean, not very good?" Wesley asked.

"Well, these victims I found," Angel replied. "One, the cops were there already. Guy wasn't dead, but was close to it.

Wesley frowned. "What did he look like?"

"Broad shoulders, dark hair, really big brow," Angel gestured to his own face, indicating features much more square and exaggerated than his own. "Illyria thought he looked like me but there's no way - "

"Angel?"

"Yeah?"

"What did his wounds look like?"

"Oh." Angel deflated a bit. He mimed a cut across his neck. "Sliced right here, pretty much like mine. Maybe less ooze."

"Loppestre demons don't attack and then send the victims off to hospital, as a rule." Wesley tapped his lower lip with his index finger, lost in thought.

Angel continued, "And the other one was just lying there. Nothing around to scare the demons off, so why wouldn't they have taken him?"

"That is unclear at this juncture, yes," Wesley acknowledged. "But if they have taken other prey, those individuals may still be alive."

"So we need to find their nest," Angel said. "Chances are, they didn't forget to take all their snacks home. We just need to figure out what an overgrown lobster considers home."

"We should try to pinpoint the locations of other possible attacks of this nature," Wesley agreed. "And when you go after them, be sure to avoid their claws. The paralyzing agent didn't have as much of an effect on your vampiric constitution, but it can still slow you down. Take Spike; he'll be helpful."

Something struck Angel. "Hey, Wes? The dead guy I found in the other alley? He looked a bit like Spike."

"Perhaps we'd best check recent area police logs," Wesley said. "We can see if other victims have been reported and get an idea of the range of the attacks."

Angel poked at the template book gingerly. "Can this do police blotter, too?"

Wesley chuckled. "No, but I have a corporate laptop, with all manner of interesting access. Let's see what the police database shows."

---

Spike spoke with a calm born of decades of practice. "It's all right, kitten. I'm here with you. Not lost, not hardly." It made him a bit uneasy how quickly he could slip back into their pattern, but he petted her with the practice of a century.

Drusilla started, twitching in Spike's arms, as if seized by a sudden thought. "Perhaps I'm the lost one. You're all crawling with the filth of soul, babbling and screeching to me in a thousand tongues, with a thousand names. And all the names are the same. I can't find myself in the din!"

"You're right here, too." Spike caressed her face. "And your name is Dru. Hasn't changed. I've got you. And I'm still me. Just a bit more than before."

"Shouldn't be. Not natural, not right." Drusilla shook her head and pressed herself against him, muffling her next words against the leather of his duster. "Balanced between nightfall and day, belonging to neither. The stars bleed out their pain at the sight!"

"Some things never change," Spike muttered under his breath, both disturbed and comforted by it. He held her close, trying to calm her and wondering what to do.

Drusilla lifted her head, gazing intently at him. "It's quite simple, really. Our little family may no longer take tea together, but we know one another. Always will. Even when our essence shifts, flowers to sand." She pulled away from him, peering at some unseen presence over his shoulder.

Spike shifted uneasily, pleased to see that Angel hadn't appeared yet. Somehow, he didn't imagine Angel would be keen on tea or any other celebratory drinking with Drusilla in the picture.

"Lost, lost, lost!" Drusilla cried out with a sudden wail, sitting down on the steps with her legs curled under her body. "Memories melt and re-form, but their shapes are all wrong."

Illyria spoke, surprising Spike, who had momentarily forgotten her presence. "I have been torn by this grief, have experienced this sensation of loss. Eons have passed, the tides of time immeasurable burying all I knew."

Turning her attention to Illyria, Drusilla peered up at her. "Hollowed out, you are. Not right. Blue light shines least strong of all."

Apparently reaching the end of her patience with Drusilla, Illyria gave her a last piercing stare and a shake of her head before she entered the theater and left them alone at the doors.

Squatting down to Drusilla's eye level, Spike tried to find the right words. "Dru, Princess, I don't think you want Angel finding you here. He's been a mite out of sorts. Think that heading out of town, maybe south again, is your best bet. Darla isn't here, see, and Angel and I aren't fit company for you."

Drusilla seemed lucid for a moment, running her long, sharp nails down Spike's cheek and asking plaintively, "I shan't see Daddy? It's all inside out, now." She nodded slowly. "Find the family that wants to see me."

"Right, scamper off, there's a girl. Try not to eat the good citizens of L.A.." Spike tried for a cheery tone, but it felt flat. He took her hand and helped her up, letting go of it when she was standing again.

Meeting his eyes for a last long glance, hers liquid and dark with heartbreak, Drusilla drew away from him, beyond his reach. She wrapped her own arms around her slight frame and stepped alone into the night.

His hands suddenly numb and useless at his sides, Spike watched her go before slumping against the front doors.

---

"Police files indicate many recent disappearances around the Walden. The victims don't seem to correspond to any particular pattern," Wesley said, poring over spreadsheets on the laptop. "At least a dozen people of seemingly arbitrary ages, genders, and races have been reported missing."

Angel paced by the windows and looking out over the night-lit city. "So, these Pest Demons aren't completely hopeless in the bringing home of the bacon. Just somewhat."

"Loppestre," Wesley murmured, seemingly engrossed in something on his screen.

Angel walked back over to Wesley's side and looked over his shoulder at the laptop's display. It showed a chart of disappearances and murders.

"Okay, that's the guy Illyria and I saw," Angel said, recognizing the dark-haired man.

"That unfortunate fellow apparently died in the ambulance," Wesley said, paging to the next case.

The next page had a scrolling 'this just in' banner, with a picture of a sunken-cheeked blond man, clearly dead.

"That's the second guy I found!" Angel said. "Are there more?"

Wesley scrolled through more pages. "Apparently in the last few days there have been half a dozen murders in the area. Your two fellows and several women, as well."

"Did they all have their throats cut?" Angel asked.

Wesley furrowed his brow. "It appears so, judging by these crime scene photos. But according to these records their wounds were entirely free of ichor. These victims were merely subject to a clean slice across the neck."

Angel gazed at the picture of the latest dead women, an unfamiliar young blonde who looked much like the others documented so bleakly in the stark pixels of Wesley's screen. "Hate to say it, Wes, but I'm starting to think these might be separate cases entirely. We might need to look into this."

Wesley pursed his lips as if considering his words carefully, before slowly saying, "Angel, I think an enemy may be trying to mislead you. Someone who knows your history may be trying to distract you from this case.

"But Wes -" Angel tried to interrupt.

Wesley continued, "It would be most unwise for you to fall into this trap."

"How can you be so sure it's a trap? There could be people in real danger!"

"These deaths aren't necessarily even of supernatural origin," Wesley countered, holding up a hand against Angel's protests. "If you're worried about the other victims, send Spike to look after them."

"I can handle this myself," Angel insisted. "Why should Spike have all the fun?"

Wesley explained calmly, "He can ascertain whether they even fall into the bailiwick of Angel Investigations. And if your enemies are trying to use your known proclivities against you, they won't be expecting Spike."

"Just seems suspicious that something's killing people who look like your friendly local vampires and their nearest and dearest," Angel said.

"I agree," Wesley said, "which is precisely why we should be on our guard. Get Spike on the line. One way or another we need to put a stop to all of this."

---

Gunn adjusted the rack in the weapons cabinet and slid the last dagger into place. "Trust Spike to take the car home, park it illegally and unlocked out front, and not empty it of the weapons," he muttered.

Not like Gunn had minded having more time with Anne, and, hey, bonus trip to the store equaled doughnuts. Gunn grabbed another one from the open box on the counter.

The phone next to the doughnuts rang and then rang again. Gunn sighed; there was no intern tonight, and it didn't look like Spike was around to answer it. And the less Illyria answered the phone, the better. That left him.

"Angel Investigations," Gunn said. "What can we do for you?"

"Gunn," said Angel, sounding concerned and a bit upset.

"Well, if it isn't a call from the man himself," Gunn said. "Where you been? I got some coffee."

"Yeah, that's great. I could use your help," Angel said. "Bring Spike and Illyria, if they're around, and - "

"I just got back, big guy. Hang on; lemme look for them."

Phone in hand, long cord dragging on the floor, Gunn headed for the basement stairs. "Illyria? You want to go on some crazy mission of Angel's?"

Speaking with perfect clarity and in a loud enough tone to carry upstairs, Illyria replied, "I have had enough of vampiric foolishness for this night."

Shaking his head, Gunn was about to relay that to Angel.

Before he got a chance, Angel said, "Gunn, what did Spike... wait a minute. She's talking about me, isn't she?"

"Hey, I got no idea. You two fight again?"

"Maybe a little." Angel sighed. "Wesley and I think we've got a location for that Loppestre Demon nest. Will you and Spike meet me at the corner of Cheshire and Oak in twenty?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Gunn saw Spike come out of the auditorium and head for the weapons cabinet. Gunn asked, "You up for some monster-hunting with Angel?"

"Tell Gramps I'll be there," Spike said in a subdued tone, slinging the weapons cabinet door closed and taking a practice swing with his ax.

Gunn obligingly began, "Spike says to tell you - "

Angel growled, "No, you tell him not to call me that." He hung up.

Gunn shook his head and set the phone down. "You sure know how to rile the boss, Blondie Bear."

Instead of his usual protests at the nickname, Spike silently contemplated the blade of his ax. Gunn shook his head. Odd. And odder still, Spike ignored the box of doughnuts as he headed for the door.

"What're you waiting for, then?" Spike asked, looking back at Gunn.

"Let me get an ax," Gunn said. "And are you sure you don't need some coffee before we head out? You don't seem as manic as you were earlier."

"I'm fine," Spike said, looking anything but. "Let's go, already."

---

Angel, Spike and Gunn walked through the damp, slimy sewers, splashing in the rainwater run-off. Not quite as sure-footed as the vampires, Gunn slipped once or twice, cursing under his breath.

Slowing down, Angel said, "So, according to Wesley's deductions, the demons should be about... here."

As he spoke, they rounded a corner and came upon an open area. They saw about a dozen of the Loppestre demons. Unfortunately, the demons also saw them.

Larger than the average human, the demons were covered in mottled orange scales, with great grasping claws like overgrown crustaceans. Slime oozed from the tips of their claws, and they made a chittering noise as they scurried forward on the stone floor.

Spike wrinkled his nose as he raised his ax. "You weren't kidding about the smell." The odor as the demons rushed them was pungent and unpleasant. When a demon came close enough, Spike hacked at its outstretched limbs.

Gunn ducked a clumsy blow and agreed, "Or about the slime." He parried a swipe of another demon's claws and moved in close enough for accurate chopping.

"Did I forget to mention that they're faster than they look?" Angel asked, shoving one demon into the path of another with a powerful kick.

Fighting side-by-side, the three of them pressed the demons hard and made headway into the chamber, ducking the swipes of the creatures' claws and taking care to keep their footing on the ichor-covered surface.

"Didn't like the looks of your cousin on the dinner cart at New Year's, lobster-boy," Gunn said as he swung at one particularly aggressive demon, "and you're just as ugly." He dispatched it with a satisfying crunch of his ax through its hard carapace.

"Damn!" Angel said when the twitching corpse didn't dissolve. "Kill them, and they just lie there and ooze. Don't trip over the bodies, guys."

Showing slight signs of intelligence, the demons regrouped, chittering and waving their claws about, before rushing them again. Despite their size, their wide, squat torsos and lower centers of gravity gave them an advantage in mobility in the cramped environs of the sewer.

Spike swung an ax and crushed a demon's head, sending shards of chitinous carapace into its brain. Instead of celebrating in manic glee, he simply moved onto the next demon with a grim-faced determination and a distant look in his eyes. Inattentive to his surroundings in the thick of battle, he missed seeing a demon's incoming attack.

Pleased at his success with the first creature, Gunn attempted the same method on the demon at Spike's back. As he swung, however, he found himself slipping in the slime on the sewer floor. He flailed wildly, but before he could get his balance again he fell. His erstwhile target whirled away from Spike and lunged for Gunn. Instead of slicing his throat, though, the demon collapsed on top of him, twitching and slavering. Sticking out of its back was Angel's favorite ax.

Trying to regain the breath that had been knocked out of him, Gunn pushed the demon off of him and scrambled to his feet.

Fighting two demons now with only a dagger, Angel was beset from behind by a third. Swinging a sharp claw at Angel's neck, the creature threatened decapitation. Spike caught the edge of the claw with a well-aimed kick, and Gunn lopped off the limb.

"Thanks for taking out the one on me, man," Gunn panted. "But you probably want your ax back." He held out Angel's ax, orange ichor and shredded chitin clinging to the blade.

Nodding his thanks as he took the ax, Angel slashed his way through the midst of the demons, breaking up the group and cornering three. He moved in for the kill.

Spike hacked his way into the rear of the chamber, where two demons had been hanging back from the fray. Ducking their clumsy swings and thwacking them both in the torso with the blunt side of his ax, Spike toppled them both onto their backs. He peered into the alcove they had been guarding.

"We've got some poor bastards here who've been Shelobed," Spike called before swinging his ax into the unprotected underbelly of one of the demons he'd unbalanced.

"Shelobed?" Angel asked, slicing a demon in half and glancing over at Spike for a moment before engaging another foe.

Spike's sigh was audible even over the sounds of battle. "Hobbits, elves, twelve hours, DVD player overheating..."

"Oh, right," Angel replied, fending off a glancing blow from a wounded demon. "I still don't know why you insisted on watching every possible second of deleted footage." He shook his head.

Gunn decapitated a monster and grimaced as the slime splashed across his face. "About now, I'm missing those quiet times we had over the holidays." He punctuated his words by slashing at the last demon as Angel slammed his ax into it from the other side.

As the various oozing pieces of the last Loppestre demon fell to the floor, Angel saw the victims Spike had been talking about. Trading ax for dagger, Angel peeled the dried, encrusted slime off the first one.

The man found his voice, coughing before sputtering, "Thank you!"

Angel helped the man to stand. "Are you feeling all right? No ill effects?"

"Just dry, itchy, and thoroughly disgusted," the man said, peeling remnants of the crust off his arms. "What were those things? Who are you people?"

"I'm Angel, that's Spike looking peevish, and Gunn's helping your friend," Angel replied.

The man managed a faint grin. "Angel, eh? Handsome as one. I'm Terrence, and that's Sean."

Still lying on the sewer floor while Gunn freed his legs from the confining crust, Sean asked, "What time is it? I think I blacked out for a while there."

"It's almost dawn, so let's get moving," Gunn said, extending a hand and helping Sean up.

Accepting Gunn's help and leaning on him unsteadily, Sean asked, "How did you find us?"

"It's a long story," Spike said, draping Sean's other arm over his shoulder with a sigh and supporting him from the other side.

They all started to make their way out of the sewers. Gunn and Spike moved down the corridor, following Angel and aiding the weakened man.

Walking at Angel's side, Terrence looked back and said, "They may have saved our lives, but Anne's going to kill us." Noticing that Sean had help walking, he wobbled a bit and leaned deliberately against Angel.

Gunn asked, "Anne?"

"Yeah, we were supposed to volunteer at her shelter," Sean clarified. Terrence added, "She hates it when people don't show up when they're supposed to."

Gunn made the connection. "Oh! You're her missing volunteers."

"We filled in for you," said Spike.

"You did? Well, isn't that serendipitous," Sean replied.

"Here's the way out," Angel said, climbing up the first ladder in sight and pushing aside the utility cover at the top.

The rest of the group followed him up into the gray pre-dawn, Sean and Terrence blinking against the growing brightness in the sky.

"Okay, we're going to go home and try to forget what happened," said Terrence. "If you see Anne, wanna tell her we'll come work at the shelter next Wednesday?"

"Sure, no problem," replied Gunn.

Sean added, "Yeah, I want to teach the kids this great German board game. I'm thinking they'll like the 'wood for sheep' jokes."

"Right, then. Scurry on home," Spike said, face drawn into a strained approximation of pleasantry.

The rescued men walked off a bit unsteadily but capably enough, Terrence supporting Sean.

Angel watched them go, pleased to have saved them, though he realized with a sick feeling that the Loppestre demons must have already eaten about ten other victims.

Gunn called after them, "Hey, if you're not up for volunteer duty right away, Spike and I will just have to keep helping at the shelter."

Angel snorted audibly at Gunn's offer. "Helping, yeah. I'm sure Spike was a big help slacking and eating their food. And maybe reading poetry to them."

Spike just sighed and took the accusation in stride. "Did tell one kid about open mic night. But, listen - "

"Ixnay on the ike-may," Gunn muttered, looking alarmed. "We don't need Mr. Champion here anywhere near one of those."

"Hey!" Angel protested.

"Let me guess: Manilow," Spike said. "Look, Angel, if we're taking a walk down memory lane, there's something I - "

"You don't even want to know," Gunn interjected. "I have vague memories of 'Mandy,' but thankfully time's blurred the trauma."

Angel flushed and ducked his head. "Do we have to talk about this?"

"Yes, yes we do." Spike's eyes flashed. "Look, this is serious business. I - "

Apparently taking pity on Angel for once, Gunn interrupted Spike and changed the subject. "Let's swing by the shelter; it's right down the street. We can see if Annie's still up; she said she had lots of paperwork. We can let her know her missing volunteers are okay."

---

Pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead, Anne willed her impending headache away.

She yawned and tossed the grant-writing templates into a drawer. "Plenty of time to finish those up in the morning." She stretched and yawned again. "Make that afternoon."

The last of the teens had long since gone to bed. Anne deliberately didn't check the clock on her desk, though it was visible in the small pool of light cast by her reading lamp; she was certain it was almost dawn, and she knew her sleep would be brief enough without counting the hours.

Anne moved through the dimly lit common room, picking up and nibbling one lone cookie that had escaped consumption. Suddenly she heard a rustling noise followed by a strange sighing that didn't quite seem like it could be the wind. Looking around, she couldn't see any possible cause.

She unlocked the front door and poked her head out, but she saw nothing except her lone car in the empty expanse of parking lot. Then she heard a laugh, low and unsteady, coming from the darkened room behind her. Whirling around, she saw a dark-haired woman swaying, almost dancing, in the opposite doorway.

"You," Anne said, recognizing her instantly. "You - do you have a soul now, too? Like Spike?"

Drusilla gave a spine-curdling laugh. "A soul! A nasty soul, burning him up inside. My poor lost Spike. Our whole family's broken apart."

"I'm, uh, really sorry to hear that. So, maybe we should call Spike?" Anne's heart raced, and she looked around the room for a weapon.

Ignoring Anne's suggestion, Drusilla continued, "I would blame that horrid Slayer, but she is gone. Gone! Never more than a faint imprint, moonlight on glass, of Grand-mummy, daughter mine." Her words ended on a menacing note.

Alarmed, Anne feinted toward the open door before dashing toward her desk, intent upon reaching her holy water gun. But before she could take more than two steps, Drusilla caught her arm with strong fingers that held her firmly without crushing her.

She stroked Anne's hair, murmuring, "Satin, ribbon-soft, but you're not the porcelain doll I want. Warm and heady, but not for me."

Anne struggled for a moment, but then Drusilla caught her gaze. Looking into Drusilla's eyes, Anne felt heavy and liquid, as if she were floating, and then felt nothing at all.

---

"Guys?" Gunn said, as they approached the teen shelter. "Front door's open. This time of morning? That can't be good."

Two figures were outlined in the doorway, one light, one dark. Glancing at one another in dismay, Angel and Spike ran for the door.

Gunn, following close behind, could already see they'd be too late. He ran anyway, shouting, "No!"

His feet pounding against the pavement, Gunn watched helplessly as Drusilla slashed her long, sharp fingernails across Anne's throat. Crimson blood poured out in an obscene rush from the wound in Anne's neck, staining her pale skin and white shirt with the color of life... and of death.

THE END