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Most nights, William’s dreams either began or ended in the kitchen. It defied explanation. William was never on-board for the whole lucid dreaming trip. That was just too much work. Didn’t seem right, driving them around when dreams were supposed to be about the ride.

Still, the whole kitchen dream scenario had started drive him bug-shagging. He would dream of going to the refrigerator in search of a pint, only to find the crisper drawer full of severed limbs. Not so much the treat it once was. One night William opened the oven to find Andrew’s head in there, floating in a jar full of murky greenish fluid. William had closed the door before the talking head of Andrew could go all Haunted Mansion.

So tonight when William wound up in the kitchen again, he decided the lucid dream tack might be the way to go.

Get your bloody coat, he told himself. Head down to the docks. Fill your head with a nice violent demon fight. Or dream of dolphins in the Thames, for pity’s sake. Just get out of the sodding kitchen.

When he strode through the arch, he just appeared again under the contrasty light of the kitchen by night. This time, Anya was there.

“Oh. Bollocks,” he said.

Anya sat atop the counter, long legs dangling. She wore a candy striper uniform, a triangular paper hat on her head. In her hand, she held a small object – a stone idol, perhaps, or a doll. She traced its contours with her smooth white fingers. Since she took no notice of him, William tried again to cut out of the scene.

He appeared again in the kitchen, right under the light. It was unsettling.

Anya dragged her attention away from the object of her reverence.

“Spike,” she said, sounding dazed. “Hey. Look at you. Finally ousted Angel and secured a spot among the Scoobies. Well played.”

William stammered. “That’s... not how it went down.”

Anya dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Please. I see things. Not that I’m bragging about it, but being spectral entity does have advantages.”

William opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. He focused on the thing in her hand. Had it changed? Was it moving?

Anya went on. “It’s not like I’m spying, really. You people do all your talking in the kitchen. I can’t help but overhear. In fact, I could spy, if someone wanted me to...”

“Anya,” William said, cutting in. “Why is it I’m the only one can see you?”

She pouted. “You’re the only one who wants to see me, Spike.”

“No, I don’t,” he said, too quickly. She frowned. “I mean, no I’m not,” William amended. “Xander wants to see you.”

Anya scoffed. “Oh that’s great. Couldn’t let go in life. Can’t let go in death. That’s what he’d think. ‘I’m haunted by my ex-vengeance demon ex-fiancée’ is what he’d think. He’d never get the penance angle. Never.”

“What have you got there? In your hand?” William asked.

Anya cupped the object in her palms. It was a polished sandstone carving of a dragonfly with lovely articulated wings.

“This thing?” she asked, her cheeks flushing pink. “I kept it by the register in the Magic Box. It was my Pending Mail Orders paperweight. I called him Snappy.”

“Uh-huh,” William said. “And where did you get it?”

Anya returned again to running her hands over the shape of the dragonfly, feeling out its wings and the thin blade of its body with her fingers. “My guardian angel,” she said. “Or maybe... parole officer? He’s French. At least, I think he is. He speaks with a French accent. And sometimes he gives me things. Cherished little things. They help me feel less lost. I’m kind of alone here, Spike. It’s not so easy.”

“Oh don’t give me that,” William spat. “I was all ghosty myself not so long ago. I do know what it’s like, pet. And it’s not the same for you. Your situation here seems pretty sweet.”

“Sweet?” Anya said, bewildered. “How can you say that? I am on the outside; able to see all of you but you don’t even know I’m here. I’m ineffectual incorporeal Anya...”

“And who decided that, Anya? You?”

“No. Of course not me.”

William stared hard at the dragonfly she held in her now white-knuckled grasp. Quietly, he told her, “Seems to me, you’re on the inside, luv. Inside, looking out. At us.”

Anya blinked.

William reached around Anya’s waist. He turned the faucet on full blast, then leaned in close to her.

“Find out all you can on this so-called Clarence of yours,” he said.

“What? I don’t understand...”

“Guardian Angel,” William said forcefully. “Get a name, get anything. Got it?”

Anya was shaking her head. “I can’t do that, Spike. It can get a lot worse for me. A lot worse.”

“Howling abyss? Gaping gorge of eternal torment? Yeah, seen that,” he snapped.

“But... how?” she protested.

William gripped her forearm hard enough to make her flinch.

“Hey!” Anya cried. She raised Snappy over her head, then brought it down to clobber him. It passed through him, as he knew it would. William pried the dragonfly from her reluctant fingers, then smashed it on the counter.

“No! Spike, you rotten bastard!” she shouted. She raised her fists to hit him, but he grabbed her wrists, holding her steady. “You mean-spirited, villainous...”

“You can do it, Anya,” William said. “Do it, and I can help you be a more effective phantom.”

Anya’s eyes panned from one of her pinned arms to the other. “How?” she asked.

William released her. “It’s just an application of will,” he said.

He left the water running when he walked from the room. This time, when he crossed beneath the kitchen’s arch, he continued into the entry hall. He woke before reaching the front door.



William sat up, trembling. He chased the fragmented images of dreams around his head. Buffy stretched beside him. In her sleep, she mumbled, “Marzipan, you... vamp.”

He smoothed back the curl of hair that had flopped over her temple. Touching her in this way seemed to iron out the lurches, even though his heart continued to flutter like the undisciplined git it was these days. Everything was fine. Everyone was asleep. The clock on the bedside read 4:23 a.m. Nothing amiss here. Nothing but the unexpected domestic bliss.

But he did recall something odd about the kitchen. Vaguely, he remembered Anya. The more he worked to assemble the memory of his dream, the more he dreaded the certainty that seeded in his belly. Their house was not so safe as it seemed.

~*~

Morna twirled around and around and around. Her skirts made a soft hsssshing sound as she spun. Lalaine knelt on the hard-packed earth still warm from baking all day in merciless sun. She held the head of the woman who drank from her wrist.

“There, there,” Lalaine said softly, running her palm over the woman’s tangled black hair. “Drink of me, and be forever found.”

The woman broke away from Lalaine, sobbing, her body shuddering as the new strength found its way into her bones. Lalaine allowed the woman a few moments to gain her composure. Morna danced, feet bared again, toes rust-brown from the dust. From her fingers she dangled the gauzy veils torn free from the women’s faces. The veils swirled in the wind created by Morna’s dance, lilting like flags. Lalaine licked her lips. Two villages down, two to go. Not bad progress for one night’s work. Lalaine knew that Thellian would be pleased.

The woman raised her head. Lalaine could see her seeing things clearly for the first time.

“Liberating, isn’t it?” Lalaine said. “All of that power. All for you.”

The woman got steadily to her feet. She plucked the veil from her head and tossed it to the ground. Morna stopped spinning. She struck a ballerina pose, poised on pointed toe.

“Eee?” Morna said, pointing to the veil.

“Yes, take it,” Lalaine said, nodding to her sister. “We’ll not be needing that anymore.”

Lalaine turned the woman roughly by her shoulders. She looked down into her eyes.

“You understand what you must do next?” Lalaine asked her.

The woman looked momentarily afraid. But then understanding welled into the dark irises, and Lalaine knew she understood.

“Hunger,” Lalaine said. “You feel it. Of course you do. But you must remember to share. Do you understand ‘share’?”

The woman hesitated again, watching Lalaine’s face. Seconds later, she gave a curt nod. She morphed her face to demonic form, then back again.

Lalaine laughed. It was a sound like breaking glass. Behind her, Morna clapped her veiled hands together.

“Good woman,” Lalaine said. She kissed the woman’s forehead, then turned her to face the road. The woman departed, running at her newfound preternatural speed, in the direction of the larger village of Uttarkashi.

“Morna,” Lalaine called. Her sister dropped to her knees and began sifting the paprika sands through her fingers.

“Morna,” Lalaine said again, this time more firm. “It’s time, dear. Other places to see. Others to find. Are you ready?”

Morna smeared the sand over her face, drawing three pumpkin orange lines – one down her nose, the other two on either side, down each cheek.

“Ungg,” Morna said. She held her arm aloft, pantomiming a knife strike.

Lalaine tilted her head to the side. “Now you resemble mother,” she said.

Morna smiled, showing her teeth like a savage. Lalaine took her sister’s hands, hauling her to her feet. Morna mimicked the striking dagger again, this time pretending to stab her own chest.

Lalaine sighed, suddenly feeling tired. The exhilaration had bled out of their evening’s fun and games. Not that Morna could understand, Lalaine knew. Their mother had died so long ago, and Morna’s mind had gone before that.

“Yes, yes,” Lalaine said, hollowly. She caressed Morna’s brow with her fingers, dusting away the sand that caked there. “Just like our mother.”

~*~

Angel wandered nights through the streets of London. He told himself it was to gain his bearings, to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He knew it was a lie, though. He knew that his reason for staying ended and began in the same place.

It was a bad decision, too. Wrong-headed, wrong-hearted - plain wrong. Really, though, where else was he supposed to go? He was hiding out from two of the most powerful demon organizations in this plane. Plus, Buffy and Spike together? Please. Both seemed to attract trouble the way Matthew Perry brought in bad press. Angel would have adequate opportunity to step in and bail out. And, with Spike’s propensity for screwing things up, Buffy was bound to see...

Angel had been prowling Kensington Park, walking along its broad, mostly empty promenades, when he caught a suspicious movement behind him. Someone was tailing him.

Angel stopped short. When he turned, he fully expected to see a scythe-bearing or axe-wielding someone breathing down his collar. But there was nothing. A breeze ruffled the leaves. A knot of tourists cut across the park, heading in for the night.

Otherwise, the park felt empty. Angel decided to add paranoid to the list of traits he currently carried as baggage.

Angel turned, then leapt back. A man was standing there, leaning on the wrought-iron guardrail.

“What...?” Angel said.

“You looked lost,” the man said, his words accented with a light, fluid French sound to them.

“I’m... not lost,” Angel said. “What are you?”

The man moved with the same fluidity as his voice. He glided from the shadows into the light that pooled under the lamppost where Angel stood. He wore a denim jacket, scuffed brown loafers, baggy jeans cuffed at the ankle. His short-cropped black hair made him look like a university student on holiday. But humans didn’t move the way he did.

“Monsieur Angel,” he said. “You find that you know who I am. Just as you knew we would find you.”

“We...” Angel said, nodding.

“C’est ça,” the man said. He smiled. “The Senior Partners are most pleased with your work.”

Angel balked with genuine surprise.

The man spread his arms. He took a step closer.

“No cause for the humble act, Monsieur Angel. Your ingenuity continues to impress the Partners. As you know, they are not easily surprised.”

Angel was incredulous. “Excuse me,” he said. “Just, let’s time-out a minute. What is your name again?”

“I am Luxe...”

“Luxe. Right. And you must be the new Liaison,” Angel continued.

“Indeed. Your Liaison to the Senior Partners,” Luxe said.

Angel laughed. Hard.

Luxe talked over him. “You stemmed a hostile takeover plot which originated within the ranks of your team. You removed an insurgent threat spearheaded by Lindsey McDonald. Moreover, you established yourself as the head of a multi-dimensional demon organization, thereby asserting yourself as a formidable ally. Congratulations, Charlie. You’ve just won the keys to the Chocolate Factory.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, Luxe,” Angel said. He covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

Luxe ignored him. “You are the last remaining member of the Circle of the Black Thorn, Monsieur Angel. Entitled to their vast accumulated wealth and power. So I believe that it is you who has it wrong.”

Angel quickly sobered. “The brand...” he said.

“The mark of the Circle,” Luxe commended. “You see, you have the Senior Partners’ undivided attention. You have no cause to feel so... impotent.”

Angel’s forehead wrinkled. “I do not feel impotent,” he said, quietly.

Luxe gave a knowing nod. “We also know of the other survivors: Bloody William and the Dethwokian Lounge Act. They are of no consequence. But the Slayers and the Witch...” Luxe trailed off, letting Angel map out his own conclusions.

Angel felt a sickening tug in his guts. This was exactly how Wolfram & Hart worked. This was how they would try to drag him in again. They didn’t get to be the Senior Partners of the most powerful demonic law firm on the planet by playing fair.

“What about them?” Angel said, taking the bait. Wouldn’t hurt to learn what he could.

But Luxe backed off. “We have plans for them,” Luxe said.

“That’s great, Luxe,” Angel said, going for aloof and cagey. “Except I’m not playing. I don’t care what you have planned. I’m out. You can tell the Senior Partners yourself, or I can shoot a memo...”

Luxe held out his hand, palm up. A trick of light and puff of smoke later and a skeleton key appeared. At first he took it for a corroded hunk of metal, but when Luxe turned it over in his fingers, Angel saw that it was chipped obsidian so dark it seemed to swallow light.

“The Partners thought you might say that, of course,” Luxe said. “And so they give you this, as an offer of good faith.”

Angel chuckled. “Good faith? From the Senior Partners?”

Luxe’s words took on a coddling tone when he spoke again. It made Angel really dislike him.

“Monsieur Angel, Wolfram & Hart recognizes power when they see it,” Luxe said. “They also know that you are not a stupid man. However, they are aware that you have a destiny. You signed a contract with the Circle of the Black Thorn. These things are not easily broken...”

“So this is the key to what? Restoring my humanity?”

Luxe grinned a Cheshire smile. “No. This holds far more power than that. This is the sole key to a vault beneath the city - one that can be opened only by the turn of your hand. When you decide you are ready for it, you will find it. Until then, its secret will wait. And so will we.”

Angel shook his head. Waiting games, he knew, were often wasted on immortals. He could technically hold out forever... But something told him they knew he would not.

Luxe patiently proffered the key in his hand. Even though Angel knew it was a baited hook, he took the lure. Whatever the key unlocked it had to be a powerful something. Angel could turn it to his favor, could in fact bring whatever it was to the Slayers, to Buffy.

And as William pointed out, it was all about her. Wasn’t it?

Angel closed his fist around the key. The moment he did, Luxe vanished without even so much as a popping sound or swish of the wind. Angel was glad to be rid of the arrogant bastard anyway. He gripped the gnarled shape of the key, feeling out its edges with the cold skin of his palm.

Two realizations came to him in the seconds that followed. The first was that he was no longer hunted. He could move as he pleased. Big relief there. The second was that he suddenly had a lot of money and power to throw around. His accounts through Wolfram & Hart remained open, not to mention all of the amassed fortunes and armies that once belonged to the Black Thorn. Best of all, though, was that he could use what he needed and it could all be his secret. He could donate it all to charity. Help the helpless. Give hope to the hopeless. For Truth. Justice, and Soccer Moms.

Or, an even better thought: bankroll it all behind a non-profit organization set to take down the beast from within. To bottom-line it, Angel was free. With that knowledge, he felt better than he had in a long, long time.





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