Prologue

The cell was lit with a single fluorescent strip sunk into a recess and covered over with heavy-duty bars; it flickered on and off, illuminating the slumped form of a man. The slight buzzing hum of the light was just another added irritation that the incarcerated man had adjusted - to eventually. He could hear the screams and unearthly howls of his neighbours, both mortal and demonic, as they rattled the steel reinforced doors of their cells trying to escape the government sanctioned hellhole they resided in.

Ethan Rayne lay still on the hard mattress, his face turned to the wall as he resolutely ignored the three figures peering in through the small window in the door to his cell. He was used to the constant surveillance and discomfort; the cameras were on 24/7 and every movement and breath taken was documenting. His sessions in the ‘White Room’ were also documented. Ethan snorted. As if anyone could forget the pain of those sessions. His entire body was black and blue from the beatings that were disguised as training sessions.

He threw one arm over his face, using his forearm to block out the annoying flickering of the light and mentally consigned Ripper to the seventh level of Hades; it was his fault he was stuck here being beaten and tortured. His and the whey faced girl who was his charge: the Slayer.

He was never going back to Sunnydale again! Every time he went there he had his arse handed to him, but this last time had been different. The Fyarl-shaped Ripper had been ruddy funny, but the long-term ramifications to himself were not. He was currently residing in a mystical prison at the US Government’s pleasure.

“Bloody Slayer, bloody – bloody Ripper,” Ethan grumbled under his breath. He was stuck in some army controlled hellhole, and the poking and prodding had gotten old about three minutes after they had decided to give him a full medical. He had spent the rest of his time locked up. Once, he’d woken up from a dreamless sleep with a pounding headache and no memory of why the back of his head had been shaved. Ethan shivered slightly and curled into a ball. His sardonic features were for once immobile as he lay there counting the lines he’d carved into the cell wall.

“Oh, this is so thrilling. It’s just like visiting Arkham Asylum. All these long corridors, grim looking guards and windows into cells containing freaks and monsters. Actually it’s just like the office, what fun!”

Ethan shifted slightly at the sound of the woman’s voice; he refused to look round and add to her enthusiasm.

The army doctor ignored the elegantly dressed, tall brunette’s comments and checked his clipboard. To his right stood the C.O of Area 51. “Sir, are you sure you want to release the inmate to her?” His youthful face showed his disgust. “A lawyer for that firm?”

The grey-haired general with a standard military crew cut nodded resignedly. “Yes, the authorisation for prisoner transfer has come from up high. We’re getting a good exchange.” He bit his lip, trying to refrain from adding that the entire organisation had essentially been held hostage by the woman’s firm, with an offer that no one in their right mind could refuse. The medical ramifications of the exchange would save countless lives.

The woman in the grey suit nodded; a lock of her shiny hair slipped across her face and curled under her chin. Her red lips parted in a malicious smile. “Oh come on. Your government is getting a good deal. Five Nesarlin demons for a puny human, the money you guys are going to get on patents alone from those demons will more than level the National debt problem.” She paused and gave them a calculating smile. “Well, that’s if you can work out how to get the fluid out of their organs to cultivate the universal cure for you know what.”

The General ignored her needling. “Open the cell up and get Hostile 598 ready for transport.”

Ethan scrambled to his feet as the doctor pulled him off the bed and cuffed him with the magic inhibitors that he had gotten to know only too well. He let himself be dragged out of the cell and finally looked up into the suited woman’s amused eyes. Something sparked inside of him – hope. Evil was vibrating off the woman and it tickled the back of his neck, sending shivers of anticipation down his spine. If she was here for him, then things were about to get interesting.

“Mr Rayne, good to finally meet you! Our firm has followed your career for quite sometime with great interest. Some of your more recent sojourns on the West Coast were slightly inadvisable, but the Senior Partners have reassured the US government that from now on you won’t be going anywhere near Sunnydale.” She reached around and looped an arm through Ethan’s and urged him to walk down the corridor. “Come on, you’ve got an appointment with some of my superiors.” Lilah Morgan grinned at the silent chaos worshipper, enjoying his stunned amazement; she loved it when she was in control and about to unleash untold mischief on the world. From her reports, the skinny guy as her side was going to be an asset for her client in ways Rayne had only dreamt about. “We have so much we need to get you working on for us.” She reached up and tapped the back of Ethan’s head. “Once we get rid of that pesky problem.”

The general gritted his teeth; part of him was itching to reach for his side arm and take out the slimy magic user. He still couldn’t believe his orders, to release such a dangerous individual into the general public under the aegis of some L.A based law firm. This wasn’t going to end well…



A/N I know not Spuffy yet but I had to set the scene and get some villians into play - commenty goodness would be fab! There are more chapters to come today so settle in and hopefully you will enjoy this!

Writing Ethan has been great fun and a massive challenge as I have never tackled the character before!

Spike hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder and trudged down the stairs leading into the courtyard outside the Watcher’s apartment. The silvery full moon illuminating his way through the apartment complex, the lights in various apartments casting his features into relief as he passed the windows.

It was laundry night.

Even Big Bads had to be domesticated once in a while. After the disaster in the whelp’s basement, he’d made sure that Joyce had taught him how be a good puppy and wash his stuff without turning them into cast-offs for a well dressed four year old. Otherwise he’d reek about as much as a Gornath demon in heat. Spike shuddered at that flashback. Sometimes Dru’s choice of pets had been a bit questionable to say the least.

He knew Rupes’ timetable like the back of his hand and the place would be empty, so he was here to take advantage of the washer and the bathroom. He’d run out of clean T-shirts and socks; and nicking them wasn’t an option anymore, as the Wallmart gits were onto him. He’d been followed around by one spotty-faced berk the last time he’d gone on a pilfering spree and had come away with nothing but a pack of socks. White ones at that. As if he’d been seen wearing them.

Spike mentally rubbed his hands in glee at the prospect of invading Rupes’ bathroom. His roots needed bleaching and the crypt didn’t have running water, let alone a supply of Sweet and Low, thanks to the slayer’s trying to get rid of her watcher’s burgeoning waistline. Spike ran his free hand through his hair and sighed, sometimes he missed having Dru around to touch up his roots. Not so much now days – there was someone else but he wasn’t ready to admit that to himself just yet.

Spike stumbled to a halt and frowned.

What the bloody hell was that?

There’d been a blinding flash of light coming from the Watcher’s flat. ‘That wasn’t right! The place should be empty.’ About now he would be crooning an acoustic rendition of Lynyrd Skynyrd and living out his frustrated rocker dreams. Spike would rather yank out his fangs with a pair of rusty pliers before he would admit it – but the man could sing. He knew the Slayer and her mates hadn’t a clue what the jobless old git was up to once a week. He’d only found out after he’d trailed the ex-watcher one night and watched the concert in a trendy coffee bar he would usually not be seen undead in.

Spike dropped his bag by the fountain and scented the air.

There was a whiff of brimstone and burnt ozone emanating from the apartment. Something he’d not smelled since the time Dru had decided to cast a few spells—God he hated magic. The stench of the components turned his stomach most of time; having vamp senses weren’t always what they were cracked up to be. The whiff of burnt sulphur and ground bats nuts lingered in the back of the throat and no amount of Tequila cleared it out. He’d tried once and had ended up passed out naked in bed and had woken up to Dru painting his toenails red after putting his hair into tiny dolls curlers.

Spike froze as the front door swung open.

He stepped back into the shadows, seamlessly merging with the darkness, and watched a weasily-faced man with a heavy Roman nose step out of the watcher’s flat. The man had sharp features and was dressed in a patterned silk shirt tucked into a pair of high-waisted green cords. He was carrying a glowing long-necked glass bottle that had a large round base with a cork stopper in it. He cradled the object reverently in both hands as he knelt down and carefully placed it into a bag that had been sitting on the doorstep ready for him. The man straightened and glanced around the courtyard, as Spike leant back against the wall, letting the climbing rose hide him.

The brown-haired man adjusted his cuffs fastidiously with a sardonic smile on his thin lips and then hooked the bag over his shoulder. He rummaged in the side pocket and pulled out something small and metallic that gleamed briefly in the moonlight. He turned the piece of metal over and over, his eyes riveted to it.

Suddenly the air above the interloper’s head began to whirl like a mini tornado. There were tiny flashes of lightening spinning around the spell caster as purplish blue clouds formed and circled around his body. Then it looked like the universe had folded in on itself and with a clap of thunder the man vanished.

“Well — bugger me.” Spike stepped out from where he was hiding and went over to where the man had been standing. There was a charred spot on the terracotta tiles, but nothing else appeared to remain. Spike turned his back on potential discovery. A small gold charm settled quietly on the tiles beneath the shrub by the door where it had rolled just moments before his investigation.

Spike grabbed his bag, shouldered the door open and gingerly stepped around the black sooty mark. “Oi. Watcher. You still alive?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~

The flat was in a shambles; it looked like a knock-down drag-out fight had been going on for several hours. The Watcher’s guitar was smashed to pieces on the ground; books were scattered across the floor, their spines broken. Papers were strewn everywhere, and the pervading stench of magic filled the air with an oily miasma. Spike stepped hesitantly over the pieces as he scanned the detritus.

“Rupes? Where the bloody hell are you?” he bellowed. Spike checked behind the couch. “You been knocked out again?”
“Keep the noise down you git. I’ve got a killer of a headache.” Giles’s voice echoed weakly down from the top of the stairs. There was a dull clatter of heavy boots and the Watcher appeared at the foot of the stairs.

Spike did a classic double take. The tweed was gone and instead there was…well, there were clothes that he would’ve worn. His eyes narrowed. In fact, those jeans looked suspiciously like a pair he’d lost when he had been living here.

“What the bloody hell are you wearing?” he growled, a prickle of suspicion colouring his voice and sending the hairs on the back of his neck up on end. This wasn’t the old man, this was someone else wearing Rupes’ skin.

Giles looked down at his ripped jeans, battered docs and the vintage Clapton tour shirt he’d dug out of the back of his closet. “Clothes. Why?” He rolled the sleeves of the shirt up and then looped his thumbs into the back of his waistband and rocked on his heels. He flashed the pole-axed vampire a cheeky grin, his eyes twinkling with humour and barely suppressed wickedness.

Spike’s jaw dropped at the sound of the usually clipped accent of his fellow Englishman now sounding just like him. “You’ve got an earring,” was all he was able to accuse with a splutter as he watched the man lope towards the kitchen and rummage in the fridge.

“Yeah, wot about it, you git? Looks like you’re wearing eyeliner, but am I saying a sodding word?” Giles rummaged through the icebox and pulled out two bottles of beer. He twisted the top off one and threw it into the sink before tipping the bottle and taking a long and thirsty pull. He deftly threw the other to the shocked vampire.

Spike caught it and held it loosely in one hand as he ran the other through his hair. Something was really, really wrong with the old sod. His demon could sense something was off with the human who was now downing another piss poor American beer with relish.

“God I needed that!” Giles exclaimed with pleasure as he threw the bottle into the sink with a resounding crash.

“You did?” Spike managed to ask; his confusion tripled when the significantly changed man lit a cigarette and began to puff it with relish. The man’s entire being screamed of style and panache, something the watcher had never really shown before. Whatever the magic user had done to the man had been an improvement, in Spike opinion, but somehow he doubted the white hats would agree. A vision of disapproving green eyes staring up at him made Spike grind his teeth.

Giles squinted at the vampire through the cloud of cigarette smoke that ringed his head. “Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong with you, mate?” Giles leant on the breakfast bar and studied the unusually silent vampire.

“Wrong with me?” Spike asked as he mentally slapped himself for the squeaky voice that had erupted from his gob-smacked mouth.

“Yeah, you look like you’ve seen a ghost or somethin’.”

“Rupes…”

“Ripper,” Giles corrected, an ecstatic grin spreading across his face.

A prickle of understanding began to tug at the edges of Spike’s memory. He vaguely remembered that name. “Ripper?”

“Yeah mate.” Giles straightened and headed towards the front door with a bounce in his step, so unlike the staid behaviour that Spike was used to seeing from his fellow Brit. His jaw dropped even further.

Spike pivoted on his heel and watched as the man checked his hair in the small mirror by the door and then prepared to head out. ‘Slayer will rip me a new one if I let the old fart out on the town in this state.’ With that thought, Spike suddenly remembered why he knew that nickname. The Slayer’s mum had spilled about the Band Candy incident; her blushes had spoken more to the acutely to observant vampire than anything she had said aloud.

He frowned at Ripper’s back, and then let his demon lose. His features shifted and ground as Spike’s fangs dropped. With his demon to the fore, Spike let himself scent the air and examined the man closely.

“What you doing, Spike?” Ripper’s faint Cockney accent broke the silence. In the few minutes since Spike had vamped out and let his demon have free reign, Giles had turned and watched him in fearless fascination. “Something wrong?”

Spike cracked his neck as his features smoothed into the handsome planes of his mortal face. “Nope, fancy a drink?” He couldn’t sense all of the man’s soul; part of it was there, but the rest was not within him. ‘Not good, a soulless Watcher who is magically adept would lead to no end of mischief for the slayer.’ He needed to keep an eye on the man.

“Yeah, why not.” Ripper grinned at the vampire and watched as the blonde man started to pull bottles out of the glass-fronted bookcase to the left of the archway to the kitchen. Spike nudged the piles of records that lined the walls.

“Why don’t you get something decent playing?” Spike pulled out a bottle of Scotch and another of gin and put them on the low coffee table in front of the couch. Shrugging off his duster, he let himself slump down on the cushions and snagged a bottle. “Did I ever tell you about the time I spent a weekend drinking Mohitos with Hemmingway?” Spike asked, knowing that Ripper wouldn’t be able to resist that one. Spike chuckled at the memories of those hot steamy nights in South America. “We ended up bare arsed and night fishing in the middle of a storm for sword fish with Dru.”

Spike twisted the top off his beer and drained it in one go. It was going to be a long night. He’d realised that there was no way the chip would let him overpower the Watcher, so he figured drinking the man into a coma was the way to go. Once he had the old man secured, he’d get hold of the slayer and her mates and they could fix whatever mess Ripper had got himself into.

“Bare arsed? Why?” Ripper slouched down next to the smirking vampire, completely intrigued.

“No sodding idea, mate, but it was a bloody good night…shrinkage issues aside, that is.”

Several Hours and many bottles of booze later

Spike sighed with relief as Giles finally slumped forward. The drained bottle of gin fell from his nerveless fingers and rolled on the floor till it came to a halt by the fireplace, next to the four other empty bottles of various spirits. Spike stubbed out the last of his fags in the overflowing tray and, as he reclined, he pinched the pack that Ripper had been smoking.

He’d talked himself hoarse with tales of the good old days, as Ripper had hung on his every word. Spike wondered if any miniscule part of Giles was inside the man itching to take notes. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on the Aurelian vampire. For the past year the watcher had been after him for more background on his unlife; and Spike had played hard to get up until now.

Now here he was, yakking his head off about incidents that would’ve had Giles reaching for a notebook and a pen, and instead it was Ripper’s ears that were assailed with reminisces of the bygone days. Spike had even told him about the notorious incident in the German U-boat with Peaches, much to the vampire’s own surprise. He never thought he’d ever tell about that one. Especially the most embarrassing bit, him falling for the Nazi’s all-you-can-eat virgins party.

The slightly inebriated vampire stood; he steadied himself on the mantle and then he trudged to the chest where the chains that the old git had used on him were stored. In the background, the stereo was playing a bit of Ziggy. Spike shook his head at the dichotomy of the man who had apparently cornered the market on stuffed shirts, but at the same time had a record collection that a music lover would sell their granny for.

“You know something, Rupes? Revenge is ruddy sweet.” Spike scooped the lax form of the Watcher onto his shoulder and trudged to the bathroom.

“Let’s get you nice and comfy for the Slayer.”

Chapter Two

“Why is my Watcher chained in up his tub?”

Spike winced at the high pitch of the Slayer’s voice as she shrieked at the top of her lungs. He clutched his head dramatically as he rolled off the couch and staggered to the bathroom, collapsing wearily against the doorframe. “Don’t let him go, Slayer!” he shouted. The slayer must’ve come in, gone straight to the bathroom and ignored him sleeping on the couch. With a new sense of urgency, he stomped through the archway and steadied himself on the wall briefly before he stumbled down the corridor to his old prison. “Oh, sodding hell. I am never drinking again…”

Buffy whirled around and pinned the hung over vampire with a steely glare. She folded her arms and tapped a stiletto shod foot. Her face was a mixture of anger and horror at the sight of her normally staid watcher dressed in suspiciously familiar clothes and reeking to high heaven. She cocked her head and eyed the ripped jeans: they looked scarily like a pair Spike owned. “Why not?”

“Cos it took me long enough last night to get the old bugger that pissed so I could chain him up.” Spike grimaced in pain as the irate Slayer smacked his already aching head and then popped him in the nose just to drive the point home. “Ow, you ungrateful mare! It’s not like I could bash him over the head and then tie him up, ruddy chip,” he complained under his breath.

“You got him pissed? Oh wait, isn’t that ‘English Speak’ for drunk? You got my Giles drunk and dressed him in those clothes?” She pointed distastefully at the ripped jeans. “Eww you perv! You saw Giles naked! And then chained him to the bath for what? Kicks?”

Spike gave her a dirty look. “No you silly bint, not for shits and giggles.” He groaned and clutched his head. “Oww, my bloody head.”

“No sympathy here.” Buffy smacked him again, spinning around with a flounce of her flowery chiffon summer dress. She knelt down and began to rattle the chains, trying to free her still unconscious Watcher. “I cannot believe you did this to Giles; you’re so petty with the revenge taking.”

“I said don’t do that,” Spike growled and lunged for the girl’s hands. He was tired out, having spent the night cleaning up the mess and then doing his laundry. By the end of it he’d felt like an undead Martha Stewart and had to have a bottle of JD to settle himself from that mental image. He’d left a message on Joyce’s voice mail asking for her to contact her daughter for him, but no one had called back or turned up. In the end he had passed out on the sofa to be woken up by the slayer’s not so dulcet tones screaming blue murder and going on like a fishwife.

Buffy let out something that sounded suspiciously like a growl and began to wrestle with Spike. While the two of them rolled around on the white tile floor, they were completely unaware of their now conscious and laughing observer.

“All you two need is some baby oil and you’d be set,” Ripper laughed as he eyed the taut golden backside of his exposed slayer, appreciative of her dress as it flipped up when she pinned Spike to the ground. She straddled the struggling vampire, and holding his hands over his head she ignored his whimpers of pain from the chip firing. Her braless breasts hovered temptingly over his face with only a thin layer of fabric covering them from his hopeful gaze. Buffy blew her tousled hair off her flushed face, and ignored the glazed expression on Spike’s face and the subtle rocking of his hips against the apex of her thighs. She risked a look over at her watcher and turned seven shades of red when she saw her Watcher eyeing her butt and practically drooling over himself.

“Oh my God! Giles!” Buffy shrieked and forgetting Spike, she leapt up and slapped her hands over her backside and backed away from the ogling man chained in the tub.

“Ripper,” Spike growled at the man and slowly stood. The assessing look in the man’s eyes filled him with disgusted rage. “She’s like a daughter to you, you bloody nonce! You’ll regret this when they fix you.” Spike stepped in front of Buffy and spread his duster out covering her form. Buffy blinked at the chivalrous behaviour of the vampire that was usually a pain in her ass. She mentally slapped herself for thinking of her butt. ‘Oh my God, Giles was so checking out my…'

Buffy’s eyes narrowed as her brain began to catch up with the events of the morning. She peeked around Spike at her Watcher, ignoring the two of them arguing over who was the dirtiest old man. Buffy took in her Watcher’s outfit; it seemed familiar. All Buffy could think of was her mom comparing Giles to a stevedore in the sack. Then her brain melted and she cringed. ‘Gross, he’s all Ripperfied again. Thank God Mom is out of town on a buying trip.’

“Ahh, wait, I know! You ate some leftover candy!” she squeaked and leapt around Spike and pinned Giles with an accusing glare. “And can I add ick, cos mouldy candy is so not good for you, Giles.”

“No Slayer, not candy.” Spike tried to edge in front of her, anything to cover her from the perv’s gaze. “Can’t you go and put a sweater on or something?” he added with a petulant tone. One thing he’d never expected was to be the protector of the Slayer’s virtue, but the way Ripper was staring at the girl’s boobs was starting to get on his nerves.

“But it’s too hot,” she answered pertly. Then Buffy noticed Giles checking her out again and crossed her arms nervously over her chest and shrank back behind Spike again.

“Nahh, let the girl alone. She’s as fresh as a daisy in her little frock, gives a bloke something to think about.” Ripper smirked at the now puce girl and rattled his chains as he tried to free himself. “As for you, Spike. I thought we were mates, but you’ve chained me in the bloody tub.”

Spike growled at the bound man. “Turnabout’s fair play.”

“God, you are just so gross.” Buffy gritted her teeth, stepped around Spike and punched Giles square between his creepy eyes and knocked him out. “Sorry Giles, but seriously, the whole drooling over me is just so wrong. And when we get you all better again I am so not putting up with the cleaning of glasses and stammering.” She shook her hand to ease the ache from the impact on Giles’ skull and stomped out of the bathroom, leaving Spike staring at her with undisguised admiration.

“You hit your Watcher! You bad girl, you’re gonna be written up as the naughtiest slayer ever,” Spike sing songed as he chased her out of the bathroom.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God! How long does it take to get here from campus?” Buffy paced up and down waiting for Willow and Tara to arrive. Spike was slouched in the armchair facing the room next to the fire, and watched her mutter under her breath about dirty old men. He’d tried to explain what had happened and she glared at him petulantly.

She’d rung Xander’s but only Anya had been there; he was on a construction job and was out of town until the weekend. Anya promised to come round and hung up muttering about how they weren’t even her friends and if it wasn’t for the orgasms she wouldn’t set foot near the crazy bunch until Xander was there to buffer the meeting. Buffy had then paged Willow. Both the Wicca’s were taking summer courses at UCS—Willow so she could get a head start on their second year and Tara because she wanted to be with Willow.

“There was a flash of light and then some guy came out?”

“Yeah, that’s wot happened, pet,” Spike replied patiently, which surprised the hell out of him. It was about the twentieth time she’d asked. If it had been anyone else he’d have ripped their heads off by now.

“Who was he?” Buffy demanded. Before he could reply, she whirled at the sound of a knock on the front door. “Finally.”

“Buggered if I know.” Spike shrugged and carried on doodling on the pad he’d stolen from Giles’s desk. He studiously ignored the petulant stare that Buffy directed at him as she flounced to the door.

“Spike, you’re like totally not helping,” Buffy muttered angrily as she pulled the door open and ushered Willow and Tara in. “Good, at last you’re here! I’ve been freaking out—which is so not fun when you’re on your own. Giles is all Band Candy weird again and Spike chained him in the tub—which I…guess we should be kind of grateful for. But we need to do something to get Giles back. Cos the whole Humbert Humbert routine is so gross and I am not punching him again, it’s just so wrong me hitting Giles.”

“Not sodding helping am I?” Spike leapt to his feet and glared at Buffy. “And since when have you cracked a book? Humbert Humbert?” He rolled his shoulders and stalked over to where the three girls were standing staring at him in all his Big Bad glory. “Ungrateful bint.”

“Heeey!” Willow smacked Spike on the elbow. “Don’t call her that. I know what the means, I checked.” She shook her head at the suddenly sheepish vampire. Satisfied with her chastising duty, Willow grabbed Buffy before she started pacing again and gently turned the worried slayer to face her. “What the frilly heck do you mean Giles is Band Candy weird? I thought that we got rid of all the bars. Cos Giles, with the whole teen rebellion thing again, is not good. Eyghon much!” Willow shuddered at the memories. “Did you say you hit Giles? Oh my God. Buffy you can’t hit Giles. That’s just…so bad.”

Buffy rubbed the back of her neck, her fingers lingering on the slightly raised scar, remembering the tattoo that had cost her a load of money to remove. She winced at Willow’s censure over the knocking out of her watcher but didn’t say anything, even though she thought Willow wouldn’t be so judgy if it had been her ass he’d been ogling. Instead she pulled the thick sweater Spike had forced upon her after they had left the bathroom around her slim form and hunched her shoulders.

Tara was staring out of the open door, a faint frown on her face. She reached behind her and caught hold of Willow’s free hand with hers and tugged it gently to get her attention. “Honey, can’t you feel that?” She pointed to the side of the front door, her face a picture of concern and worry. Something magical was hidden under the bush. Its power was throbbing through the atmosphere, making her stomach roil, and it was discordant and jarring.

Spike thrust the notepad he’d been scribbling on into Buffy’s hands and then went to peer over Tara’s head into the sunlight. He carefully avoided the direct light and watched as the red head started poking around in the bushes. “What is it?” He rested his hands gently on her shoulders, missing the small smile the shy blonde girl shot him. Despite listening to Willow and Xander rant on and on about Spike being evil and the whole bottle in the face incident, she had decided to draw her own conclusions about the irrepressible vampire.

And her conclusion was – she liked him.

In her opinion, there was much more to the vampire than the surface image of black leather, bleached hair and a blustery attitude; Tara sensed more to him. It was as if like were calling to like; she could feel an innate shyness deep within him and that had tempered her knee jerk reaction. He maybe a vampire, but to her he was a big softie. It was apparent in the unconscious glances of pure longing that he directed at Buffy. She doubted that either of the two blonds were even aware of the attraction zinging between them, and she wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten them. Buffy was still aching over Riley leaving Sunnydale after the whole Adam showdown; the solider had been unable to cope with the ramifications of being used as a test subject by a woman he had trusted with all his being. Maggie Walsh’s betrayal of his trust had created a deep change within Riley and he had decided a clean break from everything was the only way he would recover himself from the wreckage the Initiative had made of his life and career. Buffy had been a casualty of that decision, and she was still a bit sore over it. So Tara felt that if she announced Spike’s attraction to Willow’s best friend it might end in a dusting. She decided that it was something that the two of them would have to discover in their own time.

“Glinda, you okay?” Spike’s voice was filled with a soft concern that calmed her senses instantly.

“Somethings leaking out a load of power. It feels really odd…” Tara rubbed her hands together, trying to wash the miasma off her. “Willow, please don’t touch whatever it is with your bare skin, not until we can check it out.”

“Here.” Buffy knelt down next to Willow and gave her a pair of kitchen tongs she’d grabbed out of the kitchen utensil holder on the breakfast bar. “Use these.”

“Ohh, shiny.” Willow used the tongs to pick up a small gold oval coin and held it up to the light. There was an ethereal glow to the piece; the power was pouring off it, making her feel giddy and filling her with a euphoria that was giving her tingles all over.

“What is it?” Spike craned his neck, trying to make out the small object. It smelled of the same dark magicks that had surrounded the man last night and it made his fangs itch.

Willow and Buffy stood in unison and walked back into the apartment. Willow held the gold coin out in front of her and gingerly dropped it onto the table near the stairs. The four of them sat down carefully around the table and looked at it. The last time so many of them had been there was at the previous Thanksgiving debacle. Buffy absently placed the notepad in front of her and watched as Willow poked the gold charm with a pen with a curious frown on her face.

“There’s some major power coming from it. I wonder what it does?” The redhead was filled with fascination. Part of her was aching to pick it up, but Tara’s presence prevented her from doing so. If she had been alone then that coin would be in the palm of her hand no matter what the consequences. But then her attention was distracted; she nudged Buffy and pointed at the notepad.

Spike peered at the tiny etching on the gold disc. “Is that a goat’s head on a bloke’s body?” When no one answered him he looked up and saw that both Willow and Buffy were staring at the notepad with pale faces. Tara was focused on the coin, oblivious to the tension in her two friends.

“Spike, is this the guy you saw coming out of here last night?” Buffy’s voice sounded flat and distant as she pushed the pad into the centre of the table. Willow let out a shocked gasp as recognition dawned on her.

Spike glanced at the rough sketch he’d made of the man. “Yeah, that was the bloke. M’not as good with the creepy drawings Peaches liked to leave on beds, but it’s not too bad a likeness.” He shrugged.

Tara slid the pad out from under Buffy’s lax hand and turned it to face her. “Who is it?”

“Ethan Rayne.” Willow shook her head in surprise. “But I don’t get it. I thought the army took him into custody after the whole turning Giles into a demon thingie last year.”

Buffy’s full mouth was compressed in a thin line. “Me too. But then again, it’s not like Riley and Professor Walsh were totally honest with us.”

“So that’s the bloke that turned Giles into a Fyarl. Wonder what he did to Rupes this time.” Spike picked up the pen Willow had dropped and poked the coin. “I swear that looks like some sort of goat’s head. What’s on the other side?” He flipped the coin over using the nib of the pen, revealing an all too familiar image.

Willow gasped in surprise. “That’s Janus. It looks like the statue Giles smashed in the fancy dress shop—the one Ethan rented. Oh this is not good.” Willow prodded the coin. “Is that some kind of writing on the face and around the edges?”

Spike vamped out; his eyes were sharper when his demon was to the fore and he stared at the tiny writing. “Looks Celtic.”

Before anyone could say anything else, the front door slammed open and Anya flew into the room. “Sorry I’m late. What did I miss?”