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The hotel reeked of faded glory. The entrance hall had obviously once been a grand affair, with ornate, gilded plaster mouldings adorning the high ceiling, rich flocked wallpaper and a fine marble floor leading across to the polished mahogany desk. But the gilding had faded to a tired brass, the wallpaper was worn and shabby, and the marble floor was dirty and crazed with fissures. Since the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the town was no longer frequented by the Russian elite escaping the Moscow summer, and without their patronage the place was clearly struggling to survive. The disinterested woman behind the desk had no problem finding a room for Ilona; suddenly rather less disinterested, she told them, in fact, the room adjoining Spike’s was free. There followed much winking, pointed glances at Ilona’s cleavage, muttered comments in her native language and suggestive chuckles as the woman found the relevant heavily ornate key and handed it to Spike.

“I’m sort of glad I don’t speak whatever the hell she was talking,” Spike said as they made their way up the wide, sweeping staircase.

Ilona laughed. “I do.”

“Yeah? And?”

“She think that we are here for the secret assignation. She cannot decide whether we are on the run from my ‘usband or your wife. She will be most surprised to find us in the separate rooms in the morning.”

They stopped outside her room and Spike held up the key, head tilted. “We don’t have to be.” He tried out his best suggestive smirk.

Ilona was made of stronger stuff. She took the key with a throaty chuckle and tapped it against his chest. “You are a very bad man, trying to lead poor innocent women astray!”

He let the 'innocent' go. “A drink, then? I’ve got a bottle of halfway decent whisky in my room…” He felt strangely reluctant to lose her company, the unexpected comfort of a friendly face.

She gave a resigned laugh. “Very well! A drink.”

In his room, she took off her shoes and ran her fingers through her hair, watching her reflection in the age-speckled glass of the ornate rococo mirror hanging by the bed. “’Ow you manage all this time without mirrors?” She watched the reflection of a mysteriously floating bottle as Spike poured a drink. “Not to see that ‘andsome face – ‘ow sad!”

“You get used to it. Comes in handy sometimes.” He put the bottle down and moved, unseen, to stand close by her as she looked into the mirror. “You want the tooth mug or the bottle?” he said close to her ear.

She laughed and turned to face him. “A useful party trick, no?”

“You wouldn’t believe how useful it’s been.”

“Oh, I think I can imagine…” Ilona settled comfortably on the bed, the ancient wooden frame creaking alarmingly under her weight. “If we were up to no good in ‘ere I think the ‘ole of the town would know, huh? Here!” She took the glass Spike offered her and patted the bed. “Sit! We talk!” She looked up at him under lowered lashes as he hesitated. “I promise to be good.”

He grinned and settled next to her. “I’m sure you are very good.”

“Ah, si! Very good indeed.” She laughed and settled against him companionably. “This is very nice, no?”

“Umm… yeah…” Spike looked resolutely away from the hypnotising rise and fall of her magnificent cleavage and tried not to notice the effect the closeness of her warm, exotically perfumed body was having on his. Ilona took a sip of her drink and rested the hand holding her glass against his thigh. Bloody hell! He shifted uncomfortably. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

She looked up at him appraisingly, one eyebrow cocked. “So, this is helping?” she asked eventually.

“Helping?” Spike said unsteadily.

She gestured with her glass, moving her hand from his thigh, much to Spike’s relief. “What you are doing – the work you do for Wolfram and 'art. It ‘elps you forget your Boofy?”

“It… takes my mind off it. 'sides, it’s not all about Buffy.”

Ilona gave him a sceptical smile.

“Well, OK… maybe it is,” Spike admitted.

“You love ‘er. You should be with ‘er.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“True love, she never is.” Ilona stared down into her drink. “Running away is not the answer – you cannot run from your heart.”

Spike looked over at her. “Voice of experience?”

She sighed and laid her head back against the headboard. “’Nothing is less in our power than the heart, and far from commanding we are forced to obey it.’ We all have much experience, those of us who are slaves to our heart, no?”

“Have you stopped running?”

“I stopped running only because there is nothing to run away from any more.” She shrugged and took a deep swallow of whisky. Spike waited quietly and her eyes were distant when she finally went on. “It was many years ago. Many years. I mentioned once that I ‘ad an ‘usband, si? One because of whom I learn about mending broken bones? He was not a good man; he ruled with the fist. I was very young when we married, as was the tradition in my village. I was not strong.” Her eyes were dark with bitter memories. “There was a man who taught me strength because he showed me what is love. But… I was married, no? In my village that meant much, and my ‘usband…” She shrugged. “A bad man. Mio amante was a man with much honour and much fire in his heart.” She looked at Spike. “He took that fire to Roma, and he fought for his country. He was a patriot, no? And during the invasion he made many enemies.”

“Invasion?” Spike looked at her in confusion. “You’re telling me he fought against the Nazis?”

She smiled grimly. “No. Napoleon.” She looked at Spike and a flash of demon yellow shone in her eyes. “Wolfram and 'art nurture those who show promise. They do not wish to lose those valuable to them.” She took a cigarette from the pack by the bed and lit it, blowing a stream of smoke up into the air.

Spike gave an incredulous snort. So, Wolfram and Hart really did like a bit of demon in their CEOs – and apparently weren’t above putting it there. “What happened to…?” he paused.

“Guglielmo.” Her voice was low.

He nodded. “What happened to Guglielmo?”

She was silent for a moment. “’e was murdered.” She drew deeply on the cigarette. “So, too late I follow my heart. I come to Roma to carry on with ‘is work; a woman who would kill freely was a valuable asset to the cause. It ‘elped ease the pain, as you understand - but only for a short while. Then, later… Wolfram and 'art found much to interest them in what I had become. I took what they offered. We have a saying,” she smiled, “naturally…. ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ I had time to bide.”

“And did you get your revenge?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Not yet,” she said softly. She stubbed out her cigarette and the wide smile was back in place. “But now – you rest. You are to take a few days with no more of the fighting. No! I will ‘ear no arguments! Sleep! Think! You must know what it is you truly want, and make the peace with yourself. Or one day you will make the mistake and that pretty head will get smooshed!” She was serious again. “Because this…” she gestured around the room, “this is not what you want.” She stood up and stretched luxuriously. “Now, you must sleep. I must sleep. Tomorrow I go back to Roma. There is no rest for the wicked…”

“And you’ve been a very wicked woman.” Spike grinned up at her.

She smiled lazily and bent down to him, resting her hands on his chest. “Ah, si, very wicked. And maybe,” she purred, “I will be again.” She gave him a soft kiss, picked up her key and left him.

He listened as she opened the door of her room, heard the sound of running water, the protestations of the bed, vampire senses picking up her soft sigh as she settled under the covers. It was a long time until her breathing deepened into sleep. He sat staring at the darkened oil painting on the wall opposite unseeingly, emptying the bottle of whisky steadily. Then finally, as dawn began to touch the edges of the curtains with uncertain light, he slept.





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