Collections by Denny

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories. Walter Benjamin (1892-1940), German critic, philosopher.

Chapter I – Sylvester Corleone

This was a sodding mess.

The last time Spike had been this brassed off was in Mexico when he’d found Drusilla with the Chaos Demon. Those fucking dripping antlers had made him raving mad. He’d wanted to snap them off of the demon’s big ass head and smash them into Drusilla’s face.

But he hadn’t done it.

Next, there was the time Angel refused to admit that cavemen had the edge over astronauts. That was the day they’d lost Fred though, and Angel…well, a few months later, he’d ended up toasted and roasted by a dragon. So that argument didn't work. Besides, it was more of a bittersweet memory than a legitimate sore spot, which meant...

Spike couldn’t count it.

This latest piece of shit, however, had to rate over any other piece of shit he could think of…well, at least at the moment. Only difference here—he didn’t want to snap the hood ornaments off of his adversary’s head.

He just wanted to drain every pint of blood from Charles Gunn’s body.

Problem though, besides Gunn being his boss, was the sodding Bracken. Gunn’s bodyguard wouldn’t let his charge lose a drop of blood without a fight. Not that Spike minded getting into a bit of fists and fangs. He just had a thing about killing Brackens. That’s all. Tempted the fates.

Angel had had a Bracken for a partner in the early days of Angel Investigations. Spike had even run into him once when he’d been in LA searching for a piece of jewelry Buffy had snatched from him. When he and that Bracken met, he’d had no clue that he was first a Bracken, or second, his name was Doyle. When Lindsey showed up as his Doyle, Spike hadn’t thought to make a connection. He excused this lapse in judgement to having spent the prior three months as a bloody ghost. Then after the Lindsay fool-on-you gambit ended, Spike decided to stay clear of tiny Texans and Brackens. The lot of them had caused him too much trouble.

Spike turned away from the Bracken sitting on the other side of the room guarding their fearless leader and set his sights on one of Gunn’s other loyal followers. That self-righteous piss-head happened to be sitting next to him. Although, it was too bad Spike couldn’t hurt the bloody pounce as badly as he would have beaten the Bracken. Connor’s head was too damn hard. Still, he sighed, the effort might make him feel better.

Spike growled at Connor, but the boy simply sipped his beer and wiped the girlish bangs from his eyes.

“Why are we hiding in the shadows like wankers?” Spike tightened the grip on the glass in his hand. “We’re bloody superheroes and kick demon ass for a living. Shouldn’t have to sit and wait for some Wolfram and Hart V.I.P to walk in here as carefree as you please and tell us what to do.” He slammed the glass down, splashing liquor on the bar and his leather coat.

“Gunn said to wait.” Connor repeated calmly for what sounded like the umpteenth time. “And if Gunn says wait, then that’s what we do.”

Unbelievable, thought Spike, scowling. When had the boy turned into such a twit? “A while back, you wouldn’t be caught chained to a coffin at the bottom of the sea doing anything Charles Gunn said.”

“It’s our job, Spike.” Connor waved at the bartender. “Hey, my friend here needs another drink.” He called out.

Spike squinted at Connor. The crack about the coffin should have gotten a rise out of him. “That’s right, mate." Spike said to the bartender. “A vampire needs a swig or ten to get him through these long, aimless nights of kissing Wolfram and Hart arse.”

“Whadda say old man?” mumbled the bartender. “Another drink?”

“How long does it take to comprehend the words…get…me…a…drink?” said Spike to the squat demon as he waddled by, cursing under his breath.

Then something hit Spike in the back. He reeled around on the barstool.

“It usually takes more than two seconds to get a drink from a Muumuus demon,” said Herschel. “Legs too short and stubby to move very fast, you know?”

“Get your hands off me.”

“Don’t be that way buckaroo,” drawled Herschel, leaning in close.

The Bracken’s breath reeked of peppermints and bourbon and Spike cringed. There had to be a reason he could come up with for beating the Bracken to a bloody pulp that Gunn would understand. “Shouldn’t you be guarding our leader?” He nodded at Gunn, who was still in his chair on the other side of the room.

“You know the boss likes to be secluded from prying eyes,” grinned Herschel. “Might start a riot if the demons and badass humans at the Culver City Bar and Grill knew the leader of the legendary Angel Investigations was in the house.”

Herschel straightened the prissy plaid tie knotted around his throat. “The man doesn’t worry about things the way we do.” He whispered into Spike’s ear. “Been to hell and back more than once, you know.” Turning sideways, Herschel wedged his slender body between Spike and Connor’s stools.

“So bloody what if Gunn was in hell a couple of times,” said Spike. Then for Connor’s benefit, he taunted, “Haven’t we all?”

Herschel snapped his fingers at the bartender. “Well, I reckon a trip or two to hell ain’t that rare amongst the members of this team. Am I right?”

Spike groaned. If Herschel was going to share his opinions on the pluses and minuses of spending time in hell dimensions again, Spike might be forced to risk pissing off Gunn.

“One man’s hell is another man’s vanilla ice cream and cherry pie.” Herschel flashed a set of big white teeth.

“Bollocks man, will you shut your trap?” Spike snarled at Herschel.

Herschel pouted at Spike and then gestured to the Muumuus demon. “Two bourbons on the rocks now please.”

The bartender’s short legs scurried toward a shelf crammed with bottles of Jim Beam. He poured two glasses full of the brown smelly booze and rushed back to Herschel.

“What about my drink?” Spike grabbed the Muumuus demon by the throat as he walked by and smiled at Herschel as the bartender spilled half the contents of the glasses on the bar.

“Patience dear Spike. Patience.” Herschel pried Spike’s fingers from the thin layer of floppy skin between the bartender’s chin and chest. The demon put the near empty glasses on the bar in front of Herschel, his gaze on the floor.

“We’ve got to get the boss a drink before the meeting begins. It keeps him from getting twitchy,” said the Bracken to Spike.

“That’s right.” Connor chimed in. “We don’t want Gunn to get twitchy,” he said seriously. “Doesn’t look good.”

“Just cause a chicken got wings, don’t mean it can fly, am I right?” added Herschel, grinning.

“What in the bloody hell are you talking about?” snapped Spike, shaking free of Herschel's grip.

“Appearances can be deceiving, that’s all I meant.” Herschel turned to Connor. “Like with you boy. For seventeen years, you were in a hell dimension fighting for your life everyday. That was some damn hard living. But for your dad, bless his soul, those two weeks broke his heart in two and put him through a different kind of hell...” His voice trailed off.

“How’d we get back on this subject?” Spike reached over the bar to a row of bottles within his reach. Moving a few of them out of the way, he found a fifth of Jack and shot the Muumuus demon a warning glare.

“That was a long time ago.” Connor took another sip of his beer.

“I believe your dad spent more time in hell than any of ya’ll.” Herschel thumped Connor on the shoulder. “But hell is what you make of it.”

“I guess,” said Connor, his lips barely moving.

“I bet there was no fire in Acathla's hell dimension.” Spike’s words were deliberately taunting and directed toward Connor. “Even if there was…fire…Angel probably loved every bloody minute of it...he was such a broody twit.”

Connor leapt to his feet. “Take that back.”

Quick as lightening, Connor pushed Herschel out of the way and was standing inches from Spike’s face.

Spike dropped his bottle on the floor as he jumped to his feet. "You’d better watch out,” grinned Spike. “Wouldn’t want Gunn to see you making a scene. Might spoil our meeting.”

“I think fucking up meetings is your specialty,” countered Connor.

Spike bared his fangs.

All of a sudden, Herschel’s porcupine headgear shot from his head. Spike ducked to keep from getting poked in the eye as the Bracken wedged his body between Spike and Connor. Then a scaly hand shoved him in the chest, pushing him back and away from Connor.

“Keep your wits about you boys, or we’ll blow this before it begins.” Herschel was strong when he had his demon on, but not strong enough to stop Spike or Connor if they’d really wanted to give it a go. The two demons held their ground.

The Bracken shook his head, disappointment filling his glowing red eyes. “Makes no sense for family to fuss like this in public.”

Spike peered over Herschel’s shoulder at Connor. “Found your Achilles’ heel, didn’t I?”

Connor lunged at him again, but Herschel still blocked their paths. “Boys, boys, boys. We’re here to work, not fight. Save it for when we get back to the Hyperion.“

Connor didn't budge for a few seconds. Then abruptly he turned and flopped down on his stool. Spike thought about giving him one more jab, but Herschel was glaring at both of them.

With a shrug, Spike sat down in his seat. He hated to admit it, but Angel Investigations needed this case. For millions of reasons and one in particular, they had to do this job to keep Wolfram and Hart off of their backs a little while longer. He rested his elbows on the bar and shouted at the bartender. “If you’d like to keep your bloody ass unbroken, you’d better get me another bottle of Jack.” He might as well get drunk if all he was going to do was wait.

“You two are dumb as a bucket of rocks,” said Herschel. “Gunn’s not gonna put up with this nonsense much longer.” Herschel lowered his voice. “Can’t let everybody in the joint know what we’re up to. Am I right?”

“Maybe you’re right. Then again, maybe not.” Spike was watching the bartender’s tiny green hands wipe the spilled liquor from the bar. They trembled as he pulled another bottle of bourbon from the counter and filled two more tumblers with ice and booze. He then reached as far across the bar as his arms would allow and extended the glasses to Herschel, mumbling his apologies.

“And again, I say what about my drink?” protested Spike angrily. But no one was paying attention to him. They were looking up.

Connor poked him in the side. “Corleone’s here.”

Spike followed Connor’s eyes as the boy stood up and started toward the staircase.

“He’s not going anywhere, mate. Just wait. He’ll be down," said Spike.

Connor stopped.

Towering a story above them, Sylvester Winchester Corleone’s massive frame stretched across half the railing of the balcony. He was at least seven feet tall with a chest span that would have made the Governor of California think twice, back in his Mr. Universe days. He was a Devil look-alike, too, thought Spike, complete with horns, a greasy goatee and a three-piece designer suit. He had the title to go with the pricey clothes as well. Executive Vice President of Collections, Wolfram and Hart, LA headquarters.

“My, my, my. Sly has dressed up for us tonight, hasn’t he?” Herschel waved at the demon, grinning broadly, as he turned, drinks in hand, and shimmied through the crowd toward Gunn’s table.

“Its show time, folks,” said Spike to Connor, grabbing the boy’s unfinished pint and draining it.

“We still have to wait.” Connor’s eyes stayed on Corleone, watching him intently as he moved down the staircase.

“You stay here,” said Spike. “ I’ll get closer.”

Connor’s body went rigid and his nostrils flared. Still, Spike knew he could count on Connor to stay put. The game was in play and the boy understood how to play it. Besides, Connor could move across a room faster than most vampires, even him. If trouble started, Connor would be at his side in a flash.

Spike shoved a few demons out of the way as he cut a path toward Gunn’s table. He’d had his fill of doing what he was told for one night.

to be continued...

Chapter II – Force Majeure

Eavesdropping was bloody easy for a vampire. Spike could separate sound into compartments. Block out what he didn't want to hear from what he did. It was a skill he’d used often over the years, especially around Angelus and Darla. It also had come in handy those first weeks after Herschel broke him and Gunn out of hell. He couldn’t stand the sound of his own sodding screams, let alone the scary noises Gunn was making in the room next door. So he’d found something else to hone in on. He hadn’t known Connor well enough back then to recognize his voice. He just concentrated on the words and the soft tenor seeping through the vents reciting Keats and Browning.

Now it was the gravelly baritone of Sylvester Corleone he wanted to hear. The super-sized demon, bending the hinges of his chair, was sitting at a table ten feet in front of Spike. Gunn was on the opposite side, with Herschel standing behind Gunn’s chair, protecting the boss’ back.

Spike propped himself up against one of the man-sized speakers near the edge of the dance floor. It was blasting hip-hop music. The humans and demons surrounding him were screeching like wild pigs as they jumped up and down on the dance floor. Spike ignored them. He had something more interesting to listen to.

“The entire fucking world is in debt.” Corleone was saying as he raised a glass of whiskey to his lips. “Bills aren’t paid. Contracts are meaningless, and even honorable demons make promises they have no intentions of keeping.”

Gunn was looking at Corleone as if there was no one in the Culver City Bar and Grill but the two of them. Gunn’s hands were folded and resting on top of the table. His head was tilted slightly to the left and his lips had curved into a small smile. An insincere smile, thought Spike, but a smile nonetheless. Gunn’s eyes were busy, too. They swept over the planes and angles of Corleone’s broad face like it was a puzzle he’d already solved.

Spike searched for signs of fatigue in Gunn, or the dreaded twitching. Then he noticed that Gunn hadn’t touched the glass of whiskey Herschel had made such a fuss about. Maybe Gunn didn’t need a swig to keep his body in check tonight.

“This shit has caused Wolfram and Hart serious problems for months,” Corleone reached for his whiskey and with a huff, placed the empty glass back on the table. “So, the Senior Partners in all of their wisdom, decided to go outside the rank and file and put together a new wet team to handle the situation.” Corleone winked at Gunn. “A little purging was necessary to get things back on track. You understand how that works, Gunn.” He chuckled. “And it was sweet in the beginning.” Corleone appeared to be drooling. “The new unit’s covert ops were sublime, and their undercover work, magical. Not literally, you understand. It was just a thing of beauty. No one knew who they were, or what they were doing until they struck. They’d line up their targets, and take them out. Fast. No mess. No fuss. The best.”

“You got a hard on, Sly,” said Gunn, his tone dangerously playful.

Corleone laughed. “And you will too, when you see them in action.”

“Sounds like some bloody tough demons,” said Spike out loud from his post next to the dance floor. Gunn started to turn his head as if he’d heard him, but Corleone was still talking.

“These devil bitches turned on us though.” His voice growled. “Each and every one of them.”

Gunn’s chin went to his chest for a moment and then he leveled his gaze at Corleone. “Their contract is the problem.” It was a statement, not a question. “You can’t fire them.”

Corleone looked surprised. “You’re right.” He laughed nervously, but quickly recovered his casual demeanor. “Of course. I nearly forgot. Of all people, you’d know the fine points of Wolfram and Hart contract law.” Then Corleone pointed a finger in Spike’s direction. “You and your vampire associate over there might still be in hell if it weren’t for your talents in that area, I’d wager.”

Cover blown, Spike advanced on the table swiftly, stopping next to Herschel who was chewing on an unlit cigarette. “Thought you were swearing off fags.” He whispered to the Bracken.

Herschel narrowed his eyes at Spike. “If you were going to spy on us, you could have picked a better hiding place.” Then he added quietly. “Besides, you were told to stay put.”

“Well, he’s here now,” said Gunn, not turning around.

With a quick smirk at Herschel, Spike slid into the chair next to Gunn, leaving a seat empty between him and Corleone.

“Why not enlist the Waste Management Department to handle this?” Gunn said to Corleone.

“We lost a unit a month ago, and another last night,” spat the Terex demon angrily. “We don’t have any more people to put on this. So, we started looking at some of our other contracts.”

Gunn nodded, as if he understood what the Terex was implying. “Our contract with Wolfram and Hart is exclusive to the Senior Partners and the CEO in charge when it was signed. And that CEO is gone.”

Spike watched as Gunn unfolded his hands, rested his palms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “What are you not telling me?”

Corleone smiled broadly. “Your contract has a Force Majeure clause, I believe.”

“What about it?” Gunn’s voice sounded sharp and Spike sensed Herschel stiffen behind him. He didn’t understand what Gunn and Corleone were saying, but he recognized lawyer talk. That meant Gunn was in his element.

Then Spike noticed Gunn’s leg twitching under the table.

Corleone snapped his finger and the Muumuus bartender appeared with another bottle of whiskey. The demon had to have been squatting under the table, thought Spike vaguely.

“The Force Majeure clause comes into play if there is an apocalypse.” Gunn said as one hand left the table to rest on his shaking thigh.

“There will be an apocalypse if these fiends aren’t stopped.” Corleone filled his glass.

“How many world ending events can there be?” mumbled Gunn, shaking his head. He then looked at Corleone. “When did Wolfram and Hart start caring about stopping apocalypses?”

“Let’s just say we need to avoid one right now,” said Corleone. “Our former CEO, the late great Angel, put us behind a bit of an eight ball, and this rogue unit is smart. They know the ins and outs of contracts, nearly as well as you do, Gunn.”

“So, you think we’d help you to prevent another apocalypse?” Gunn’s eyebrow arched to a point. As did Spike’s. But the vampire wasn’t questioning whether Gunn would accept the assignment to avert an apocalypse. He was trying to figure out what was missing from Corleone’s story.

Corleone tapped the table with his fingernail. “Angel Investigations is the only freelance unit out here that’s qualified to stop these assassins. But the beauty of this assignment is that you’ll want to.”

“Why’s that?” asked Gunn.

“They’re killing everything in sight. Clients, employees, innocent men, women and children…”

“Innocent men, women and children?” repeated Gunn warily.

Corleone picked something long and thin from between his teeth and flicked it to the floor. “Yep.” Then he rested his elbows on the table. “I figured that would be the part to get your attention.”

Corleone sucked in his jaw, smacking his lips noisily. “Two nights ago, they killed an old man, two women and a child, couldn’t have been more than two years old, when their leader snapped the baby’s neck.”

“Maybe they got the wrong address,” suggested Gunn.

“Maybe they’re just mindless killers.”

“Can’t be that dumb,” said Gunn to Corleone. “They’ve got you looking to us for help.”

“Just doing some thinking outside the box, that’s all.”

“One thing, I don’t get.” Gunn had settled both hands on the table again. “How can hired assassins end the world…again? Sounds like W and H lost a few brain cells if you hired that kind of muscle.”

“What kind is that?” Corleone shot back.

“The kind that’s too powerful to control,” replied Gunn.

“I didn’t hire them…it was the new CEO’s call,” said Corleone. Then he looked at Spike. “I’m surprised you haven’t guessed.”

Spike squinted at him. “Guessed what?”

“Who they are?”

“I don’t like guessing.” Spike responded coolly.

“They’re slayers.”

Spike tried to swallow, but he didn’t have any spit.

“Rogue slayers and their demon energy has generated a new Hellmouth, right here in Culver City,” Corleone chuckled and looked at Gunn. “And between your contract’s Force Majeure clause and your team’s experience with slayers…?” He lifted a knowing eyebrow. “You’re the logical choice to help Wolfram and Hart out, unless you’re ready to tear up that contract.”

Gunn stared at him, a gaze that penetrated like the blade of a small knife, peeling away layer after layer from Corleone’s exterior calm.

The Terex demon tugged awkwardly at the lapels of his suit jacket and then peeked at Spike. “Our records show your vampire has put three slayers in the ground, one just last year. He even fucked another. His shit must be good, she was useless for months.”

“They’re slayers…?” repeated Spike, his mind coming out of a fog.

“Rogue slayers,” said Corleone. “Five of them, and Angel Investigations is going to put them down, or risk extinction.”

“Force Majeure,” whispered Gunn.

“Yep,” said Corleone, glancing over his shoulder at the bar. “Besides the vampire, you have the don’t-really-know-what-he-is wunderkind over there, too.” He pointed at Connor. “With his powers, the vampire’s experience, your bodyguard’s surveillance skills and your brains, your team should rid us of this crew in no time.”

Reaching across the table, he patted Gunn on the shoulder. “You should be proud. The new Angel Investigations are a much better fighting unit than its predecessor.”

Gunn shoved Corleone’s hand away. “You don’t mention them to me, you fucking, oversized ape.”

Corleone was on his feet, towering above the three of them, his shoulders trembling with rage.
Herschel gripped the handlebars of Gunn’s wheelchair prepping to push him to safety, if necessary. A good thing because it gave Spike a clear shot at Corleone. Moving in from his right, he glimpsed Connor on his side of the dance floor, only a few feet away.

Then Spike heard Gunn gulping down his tumbler of bourbon. “How can we be certain you’re not lying about these slayers?” Gunn said to Corleone.

“We don’t have to lie to Angel Investigations,” he responded. “Not anymore. But if you need proof that these slayers are murdering bitches, come back here tomorrow night and see for yourselves.”

Corleone straightened his tie, grinning broadly as he patted the chest pocket of his jacket. He then bowed as much as his height would allow, turned and abruptly walked away, leaving a void of silence.

Spike couldn’t think of anything to say to Herschel or Gunn. And they weren’t talking. So the three of them watched Corleone as his massive frame glided up the staircase to the top of the balcony and out the front door of the Culver City Bar and Grill.


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Connor and Herschel were sitting opposite Gunn at his desk in Angel's old office. Spike slouched in the doorway, sulking. It was seven o’clock in the morning. Less than an hour earlier, he’d been at the bar downing shots with the stubby Muumuus demon. He’d lingered, not anxious to return to the Hyperion or face Gunn until he’d had time to digest what he’d heard. After a few bottles of Jack, Spike thought he had a handle on it. Then he thought about not returning to the Hyperion at all. He’d had his fill of Wolfram and Hart. But after he drained the fourth bottle, he changed his mind.

“We can’t do this.” Spike stepped into the crowded office.

Gunn’s gloved hands spun the wheels of his chair sharply, propelling him toward the bookcase on the other side of the room. “There’s a clause in our contract and if it goes into effect, we cease to exist. And I mean, really cease to exist. Are you ready for that, Spike?”

Spike clenched his jaw, his lips tensing into a thin line.

“I’m not,” said Gunn. “This is our business, and to do what we need to do, we've got to be around to get it done.”

“This is insane,” shouted Spike, moving swiftly toward Gunn.

“Let’s not argue, boys,” said Herschel, rapping a pen on the desktop for emphasis.

“Killing slayers is now our bloody business?” It was getting harder for Spike not to go into game face.

“Rogue slayers.” Connor corrected him.

“Right.” He shot a look at Connor and then Gunn. “We’re going to take the word of a Wolfram and Hart executive that these slayers are killers?”

“If he can prove it. Yes.” Gunn had pulled a handful of scrolls from behind a row of books from a nearby shelf. “Slayers have been popping up everywhere since Buffy pulled the hat trick in Sunnydale,” said Gunn.

“Not all of them can be good, Spike.” Herschel chimed in.

“You do remember Dana,” added Gunn.

Spike reeled away from the trio and faced the office doorway, glaring into the lobby of the Hyperion. The urge to take a bite out of each and every one of them was nearly uncontrollable. Turning, he gritted out his words. “Yeah, I remember. But damn it, taking a job killing slayers?”

“They are Wolfram and Hart assassins, and they’re killing innocent bystanders. Women and children and old men,” proclaimed Connor. “Besides, you’ve killed slayers before. What’s the big deal?”

“Did a lot of things before.”

“Did a lot of things since,” Connor countered.

“You’re pushing the envelope, son.”

“Don’t call me that,” snapped Connor. “You’re not my father, never could be. He didn’t abandon his family to save his own ass.”

Connor was on his feet and Spike was across the room, but Herschel stepped between them. “You ‘all need to put a harness on this hostility, boys.”

And because he didn’t feel like tussling with Connor, he grabbed Herschel and slapped him down on the desktop, holding him in a headlock before anyone could move.

“Get him off me.”

“Spike!” shouted Gunn. “Let him go. Let him go now.”

Spike gave Herschel’s neck another squeeze and then let go, backing away and raising his hands in mock surrender.

“You need to take this shit down a notch.” Gunn slammed his fist on top of his desk.

Spike pulled his coat up around his shoulders. “I don’t understand.” He looked at Gunn. “Why you’re so willing to believe Corleone’s story without proof.”

Gunn didn’t answer as Spike searched the faces of the three men in the room with him.

Abruptly, Gunn began flipping through the pages of a book on his desk. Connor had sidled into a corner near the bookcase, his hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes were angry and cold as thye followed Spike’s movements. Herschel had paled, as if being pinned to the desktop had sapped the last ounce of his strength. Then slowly, he started picking up scrolls from the floor and placing them back on the shelf where Gunn had knocked them off.

“Bloody hell.” Spike shouted at no one in particular. “Why are we doing this?”

“We’ve been hearing these stories about rogue slayers for months.” Gunn looked up from his book. “Five years ago, it was Dana. Last year, it was the slayer in Hollywood.” Gunn paused. “What was her name?”

“You know her name.” Spike glowered at Gunn. He shouldn’t play with Spike. They both remembered her name.

“Melody,” said Connor softly from the shadows. Then he stepped into the center of the room and the light from the ceiling gave his skin a soft yellow glow. “You killed her Spike. So, I’m confused. Why are you so against killing these Wolfram and Hart slayers?”

“You sodding fool,” said Spike. “We were fighting to survive that night and I had no choice but to kill her. This time, we’re assassins for hire. No better than the Watcher’s Council’s goon squads.”

“No, not them. They don’t kill,” said Gunn. “They rehabilitate. And if what Corleone says is true, these slayers don’t deserve a second chance.”

“Let’s wait until tomorrow night before we make a final decision, huh, boys?” Herschel had pulled himself together and flopped back into the chair in front of Gunn’s desk.

Gunn eyed Spike. “Sounds like a plan.”

“You hear what he said Spike?” said Connor.

“Yeah, I heard.” Spike walked out of the office, across the lobby and up the stairs to his room. He still didn’t like the idea of accepting a job from Wolfram and Hart to kill slayers. But if they had any hope of getting even with Wolfram and Hart for Angel, Illyria and Wesley, they had to be around to get it done.

And Spike wasn’t ready to give up his bloody revenge, even if it meant killing another slayer.

to be continued...

Chapter 3 - The Flâneur

"Taking a walk is a haeccity...Haecceity, fog, glare. A haecceity has neither beginning nor end, origin nor destination; it is always in the middle. It is not made of points, only of lines. It is a rhizome". Walter Benjamin, German Philosopher, The Arcades Project

Buffy rolled over in the bed, slapping at the nightstand, searching. Something was ringing and ringing damn loud. "What the hell?" she muttered.

Blinking her eyes open as far as they’d go, she spotted the alarm clock on the nightstand, its red digital numbers flashing four three zero. Her brain, negotiating through a fog of six apple martinis and an all night dance club, couldn’t register what she was seeing. She blinked again, forcing the last of the cobwebs out of her eyes until she finally got it.

It was four-thirty in the morning and it wasn’t her alarm clock ringing. It was her cell phone. Damn. She didn’t like it when that happened. Nothing good had been said to her on the other end of a phone since…well, ever. She couldn’t even remember the last time she answered a telephone before eight o’clock in the morning.

Buffy heard a moan and turned, remembering the naked man lying next to her. The corded muscles of his arms and legs were sprawled on top of the sheets. His head was buried face down in the pillow. In the pre-dawn light, she could make out a cascade of curly black hair and a hand groping sleepily in her direction. He hadn’t stirred, except for the hand. He hadn’t twitched. Dead to the world—except he wasn’t dead, dead. He was Jerry from Bath, a small town forty miles outside London. At the dance club the night before, he’d told her he was a grad student at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology in Leipzig, Germany. Buffy’s eyes had popped wide open when he’d spat out that mouthful. But she didn’t ask him about school in Germany, or why he was in Paris. He had an accent, talked a lot and was a good dancer. That usually did the trick. So, she’d brought him home.

Now close to frantic, she shoved the clock aside, nearly tipping over the glass of water next to it, as she finally found the phone. Seeing the caller ID, she moved Jerry’s leg out of the way and eased out of the bed.

Barreling toward the living room, she flipped open the phone. “Hello,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Yes, this is Buffy Summers.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ll take a call from Mr. Giles.”

Buffy had to stop herself from cursing. Giles was super-Watcher guy now, the man in charge of the International Council of Watchers. He was responsible for directing the physical training and emotional development of thousands of slayers all over the world. Buffy had read that in the last issue of the Watcher’s newsletter.

Annoying how absolute power corrupted absolutely, thought Buffy rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Guess that’s why Giles’ staff acted like he was the second coming.

“How ya doing, Giles?” She hoped the sarcasm resonated in her voice.

“Buffy?” He greeted her. “How’s Paris?”

“Parisian,” she said brusquely. “What’s up?”

“Rogue slayers in the US…”

Buffy plopped down on the sofa, staring out the narrow windows of her apartment at the lights sparkling on the Eiffel Tower. “Where’s Andrew? Isn’t he your expert on hauling in bad seeds?” She kept her voice low, not because she was worried about waking Jerry. How dare Giles call her at this hour about fucked up slayers? They weren’t her job. She was Hellmouth girl. One popped up, she and her crew squelched it. Andrew’s team dealt with emotionally crippled slayers.

“This is not a project for Andrew,” Giles said. “We cannot bring these slayers back to England for bed rest and rehabilitation. They must be…” He took a noisy breath. Buffy frowned as the silence turned awkward. Early morning telephone calls and pregnant pauses were harbingers of ensuing badness.

“They must be what, Giles?” Buffy probed.

“This assignment is extremely s-sensitive.”

It wasn’t like Giles to state the obvious when he was talking slayer business. “All of these assignments are sensitive.”

“Yes, but this one particularly so.”

“How’s that?”

“There’s a new Hellmouth brewing and it’s growing faster than anything we’ve ever charted.”

“That’s not good.”

“We believe the rogue slayers are fueling its growth.”

“How many slayers are we talking here?”

“We know about five, but there could be more.”

“That’s a lot of bad slayers.” Buffy got up from the sofa and walked from the living room to the kitchen, holding the cell phone between her ear and shoulder. “Andrew and I can split up. Bring them in twice as fast. Then we hook up and end the Hellmouth before it gets apocalypse size.” She grabbed the kettle from the stovetop and turned on the facet, watching the water flow into the pot. “Should take less than a week.”

“These slayers can’t be brought in just like that.”

“Why not?” Buffy turned off the faucet. “Andrew has rounded up a hundred girls in the past five years. Sure, he’s never dealt with a cluster…but it's still nothing more than a bunch of isolated incidents.”

Giles was quiet again, giving her another bad feeling.

“Do they know each other?” Buffy asked.

“Yes.” Giles replied.

“They live in the same town?”

“Yes, and they’re working together.”

“That can’t be good.” Placing the half-filled kettle back on the stove, Buffy pulled the hair away from her face.

“They’re assassins and work…for a law firm.”

“Definitely, not good.” Backing away from the stove, she plopped down onto the stool in front of the kitchen counter. “We’ll send in the militia then. Get a group of twenty or so slayers to take them down.”

“If we go at them full force, the law firm might get involved.” Giles then added pointedly. “And we don’t want to go head to head against…”

“Wolfram and Hart.” Buffy interjected.

“Yes,” Giles responded solemnly. “That is the firm.”

“Which office?”

“LA headquarters.”

“Angel’s old office?” Buffy cleared her throat. Angel had been dead five years, but it still made her chest tight to say his name out loud.

“Yes, that's correct.”

“We won’t be able to rehabilitate these slayers, will we?” said Buffy quietly.

“This will be a covert operation,” Giles said, without answering her question. “You’ll need to go in and evaluate the situation, and then proceed once you’ve made a determination on the status of the slayers.”

“Have they killed any humans?”

“We don’t know...but we think so.”

“You have proof?”

“We have an operative in the city, someone we trust and he’s thorough. Bloody meticulous even,” Giles’ voice was terse. “And he is getting us the proof.”

“So just me and my crew?”

“Eva is here in London and Gentile left Nairobi yesterday. They’ll meet you at Charles De Gaulle.”

Buffy had worked with the two slayers often in the past few years, most recently in Madrid. Eva was a little quirky, but superbly trained, and Gentile, well, she didn’t say much. Could pull out her teeth one by one and she wouldn't make a sound. But they were seasoned fighters and at twenty-one, the oldest and most experienced slayers in Europe, next to Buffy. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Buffy swallowed. She hadn’t set foot in LA in ten years. “Who’s the operative?”

“His identity must be kept secret.”

“Is it Spike?” She said his name without a noticeable change in her voice and was relieved. After five years, she expected the pain to be less, but she couldn't always count on it.

“Do you know the meaning of the word secret?” Giles was saying.

“Do you know the meaning of the words 'testy slayer'?”

“It’s not Spike, Buffy.”

She refused to let it go. “Doesn’t make sense to send me and my team into the lions' den without any other Christians to help us out...”

“When did you start using the Bible as a source for your quips, dear.”

“When was the last time you sent me into battle blindfolded?” She snorted, remembering. “Oh, yeah, I forgot about my eighteenth birthday.”

“Eva and Gentile will have all the documents you require.” Giles was ignoring her snippiness. “When you arrive in LA, go directly to the Culver City Bar and Grill to meet your liaison.”

“At least we have a liaison,” she muttered. “And this liaison is different from the operative, how?”

“Very different,” said Giles.

“And still not Spike, right?”

“I know this is going to be difficult for you Buffy.”

She wondered if he meant fighting the slayers, or seeing Spike after all these years.

“You, Eva and Gentile are the perfect slayers for this job.”

Buffy moved the phone to her other ear. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Buffy, you must deal without empathy with these slayers.” Giles said. “Are you ready for that?”

“I almost killed a slayer in Sunnydale once. You remember that.” Buffy mumbled and then promptly pushed the memory out of her mind. No point in thinking about Faith. She’d have all the ghosts she could handle once she got to LA. “Well, thanks for the call." She said sarcastically. "I’ve got to pack.”

“Keep your wits about you, Buffy. This isn’t going to be easy. The Council is not yet ready to face off against Wolfram and Hart. But we can’t allow these slayers to run amuck, especially with the potential of a Hellmouth.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you.” He was still on the other end of the phone.

“I’ve got it Giles. We’ll get it done.”

“There’s something else…the Council has asked me to inquire about Xander.”

“Giles, don’t bullshit me. You are the Council. What do you want to know about Xander?”

“Well, um, the Council is still waiting for his report.”

“Report. Well, let’s see. He’s still in Paris. Lives in a seven-story walk-up. Doesn’t like visitors, which he’s made very clear ever since he got back from Africa a year ago.”

“He’s never told us exactly what went wrong there, you know?”

“We already know all we need to know,” Buffy said hotly. “The Hellmouth went ballistic. Robin and ten slayers were trapped in its core. They went down fighting and the only two to come back were Xander and Gentile.”

“Buffy…”

“Now Xander has disappeared into his apartment, but Gentile will go wherever and fight whatever she's told to fight…just don’t expect her to say more than three words in a row.”

“Buffy, please.”

“Giles, I will not be your messenger. If you want to talk to Xander, you come to Paris and do it yourself.”

Temper lost, she slammed the phone shut.

Damn. She’d almost done it. She’d almost had a conversation with Giles where she didn’t slam something. But this was his fault. He’d provoked her, asking about Xander. And he didn't give her a straight answer about Spike.

She jumped off of the stool, stalking back through the living room and into her semi-dark bedroom. The man she’d picked up at the club the night before had curled into a ball pulling most of the sheets and the pillows with him. She flicked on the light switch.

“Hey, Jerry, time to go,” She reached over to the chair near her dressing table and picked up her robe. Didn’t want to tempt the boy by kicking him out in the nude. “I’ve got to pack. It was great, but I'm on my way to sunny California.”

Grabbing a new bottle of her favorite peppermint shampoo from the dresser, she strolled into the bathroom and locked the door behind her before stepping in the shower.

As the warm water cascaded over her head, she thought about trying again. Sooner or later Xander would answer the doorbell. She didn’t care about Giles or the stupid Watcher’s Council and its freaking report. She just wanted to talk to an old friend. Someone who wasn’t living in LA. Or at least someone who, after she found out he wasn't dead, five years ago—for the second time in a row—hadn't bothered to pick up the telephone and give her a ring.

She stepped out the shower, hair dripping, as the front door slammed shut.

Buffy slipped on a pair of tight black jeans and pulled on a loose fitting blouse. If she packed now, she'd have time to visit Xander and she might even have time to go out dancing before getting on the long flight to LA.

to be continued...

Chapter IV - Séance

Sitting on a stool, back propped against the bar, Spike eyed the big-breasted Shoji demon sauntering across the dance floor. The candlelight was shimmering around her body, bouncing off of her ample curves, making her translucent skin glow as she walked. Spike’s gaze slid from her firm breasts to her trim waistline and then settled on the apex of her thighs. Stifling a growl, he thought how bloody nice it would be to bury his cock between those legs. Feel the warmth of her body disappearing around him as he brought her to orgasm.

Spike moistened his lips and, shifting slightly to the left, loosened the snugness of the jeans trapping his erection. Then leisurely he allowed his gaze, still caressing the Shoji demon’s body, to reverse its path and travel up her torso until he was looking at her face. Meeting her eyes, he smiled, his most charming smile, and watched delighted as her skin began to turn a bright orange.

Seemed the bint was as interested in him as he was in her. The changing hue of her flesh was a dead giveaway in her species. He pushed away from the barstool and took a sultry step in her direction.

A tug on the sleeve of his duster stopped him.

“We don’t have time, Spike,” said Connor.

“There aren’t any slayers here yet,” Spike said softly, his eyes refusing to leave the Shoji demon. “Good or bad.”

“It’s early.”

Spike pulled his arm out of Connor’s grasp. The boy was right. It was midnight, and the Culver City Bar and Grill had only a handful of customers. There was an obnoxiously vocal half-dozen humans, out for a risky night in a dangerous demon bar, blabbering incoherently at the end of the bar. A few scattered demons of various origins were on the dance floor, moving to Miles Davis. It was the most civilized music Spike could recall coming out of the bar’s super-sized speakers. The rest of the club’s inhabitants consisted of the Muumuu bartender, Herschel, the Bracken, Connor, whatever beastie he was, and of course, Spike. The A.I. crew had staked out a few choice spots, carefully positioning themselves in case the supposed brief encounter with the rogue slayers turned into a full-fledged war.

Just then a Merish-ka demon wandered in front of Spike carrying a tray with a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of Bourbon. Broad shoulders, full-lipped and cock-eyed, she or it, Spike could never tell the difference with them, was making its way to Charles Gunn’s table. He was in his wheelchair, pressed against the wall next to the door with the flashing red exit sign. Opposite him, Herschel sat balancing his chair on two legs, an arm crossed over his chest, as he sipped a bottle of soda water.

“Why do you do that?” Connor was still talking.

“What?”

“Come on to every female demon, human or slug you run in to?”

“Watch your language, boy.” Spike turned and faced Connor. “I don’t do slugs.”

“Oh right…”

“When did you become such a bloody prude?”

“I’m not a bloody anything,” Connor stood up abruptly. “Maybe I’m just tired of fighting, quarreling and looking at females as if they were meat, or bottles of blood, like you.”

“Happy meals with legs, actually. But what’s wrong with that mate?” Spike looked directly into Connor’s eyes. “You want to settle down? Picket white fence, a sweet young honey waiting in the kitchen to bandage your wounds and spoon feed you from a silver chalice?”

“Didn’t you ever want love?” Connor sounded sincere. “Before you were turned, didn’t you want that?”

“Never,” laughed Spike. “Sounds like a fucking nightmare to me. Besides, never gonna happen to blokes like us.” Spike plopped down on the barstool. “The best we’ll ever know is the touch of a few transparent demons, or perhaps a rogue slayer or two. They’re the only ones who can handle men like us.” He patted Connor on the back.

“You and my Dad had a thing for a slayer once upon a time, didn’t you?”

“Where the sodding hell is this coming from?”

“I don’t know,” said Connor, moving a hand over his eyes. “Maybe it’s the idea of going up against a bunch of teenage girls, even if they are rogue slayers. It’s making me think.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the idea of killing a few this morning.”

“I know.” Connor was pulling his hand through his hair, which reminded Spike he had to remember to tell the boy to gel it down. Would save all that pawing.

“I don’t understand what’s got you so spooked all of a sudden.”

“I met a Slayer once.”

“And so?” Spike waved at the Muumuus demon bartender, thinking he might as well drink since Connor wasn’t going to stop talking.

“Her name was Faith.”

Spike stopped the tremor of his hand before Connor could notice it, he hoped. “When did you meet her?”

“While back. She helped Dad…I mean Angel…when he’d turned into Angelus that last time.”

“He was always Angelus,” mumbled Spike, but then he added, pretending Connor hadn’t heard his first remark. “She’s been dead a few years, you know.”

“I heard Gunn mention it.”

“She was working in Africa,” remarked Spike, his voice deliberately calm. “She was around your age.”

“Slayers have a hard life.”

“Slayers are killers, just like us and expect to die young.”

“I thought we were super heroes,” countered Connor, swallowing a mouthful of ale.

“That was this morning, mate,” Spike smiled. “Now, we are back to being a few dutiful mates doing our jobs.”

A sound that reminded Spike of the squawk of a dying bird traveled through the room as if on pieces of dust. Spike recognized Herschel’s demon coo, a warning to Spike and Connor that a powerful human had entered the bar.

He hadn’t needed to bother, though. Both Spike and Connor had sensed all four of them as soon as they’d stepped onto the sidewalk leading up to the main entrance of the Culver City Bar and Grill.

~


Bloody hell, these were a cocky bunch, thought Spike. The first slayer, a tall brunette was damn muscular, almost manly, but only about seventeen. She was humming along with the jukebox—a tune way too old and civilized for the likes of her. It was Sinatra, or Mel Torme. Then Spike nodded to himself. It was Mel, one of his classics. This girl had no business knowing that tune. She must be the leader, decided Spike. Only a seasoned killer would hum “Blue Moon” while strolling into a demon bar.

The other slayers were on her heels – well-polished three-inch Jimmy Choo heels at that. They were quite posh, her ankle boots. Spike almost nodded his appreciation for her taste. He did remember a few things from his days in Sunnydale about Slayers and shopping, no matter how hard he tried to forget.

He drew in a mouthful of air, exhaling slowly as he watched the rest of the slayers troop in behind the leader. A redhead tossed her short curls as she sashayed her nicely rounded hips from side to side. Next, a black slayer, a little older than the other two and shorter than Spike, had smooth, blemish-free skin so dark it was violet. She was like the Shoji demon in the candlelight, nearly invisible except the light found all of the right spots on her curvy body. Her head was shaved bald, too. But her heavily lashed eyelids and perfect figure recalled another dark-skinned beauty Spike had tussled with long ago.

The last slayer was a blonde. As she walked by, something got caught in Spike’s throat and he took a swig of his drink, thanking the Powers That Be for its timely delivery. He’d have to let Connor, or maybe Hershel, handle her, if it came to that.

Then he felt Connor flinch beside him as the slayers settled up to the bar.

Connor was acting more strange than usual, lamented Spike. Whatever was going on with him, it bloody well better not get in the way of what they might have to do tonight. If Sylvester Corleone was right, these four pretty girls had to die.

Spike spun around on his stool and gestured to the bartender for another drink.

to be continued...