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Author's Chapter Notes:
CHAPTER 31: A Means to an End

CHAPTER RATING: T/M for violence and character death

CHAPTER PAIRING: Tara & Spike, Giles/Drusilla

TIMELINE/SPOILERS: AU after AtS "Not Fade Away"

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I'm just fixing their mistakes!

CHAPTER CREDITS: n/a

CHAPTER NOTES: Here we get a little dark again. Thanks for hanging on with me! We're almost there!
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Tara sniffed.

Spike loosened his hold on her.

She looked up at him and sniffed again.

"What?"

Her eyes glanced at his for a second, then went far away.

The corners of his mouth dropped as he anticipated her accusation. "Okay, okay," he confessed guiltily. "Yes, I borrowed Red's shampoo. I'll get her more at the shops, I promise."

Tara shook her head, holding her fingers out to his lips. She was concentrating on something.

He looked around nervously, not sure by this point whether he should be scared or excited. Ever since the witches had found out about him, his unlife had become a rollercoaster of emotions. When his eyes settled back on hers, Tara exhaled.

"It's too quiet. Something's not right." She began to rise.

Spike's hand reached out and stilled her. "Red's just meditating, is all."

If the good witch's body language was any indication, Tara didn't accept that as the reason.

"She needs it, I think," he continued. "And good on her; I couldn't do that rubbish for long."

Tara's face hardened with seriousness. "Neither could she."

"I'd have heard if something happened or if she left. Even if we weren't looking, I'd have heard her slip out, pet."

She frowned at him gently. "Not the way she likes to leave."

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"Ohhhhhhhh...," Drusilla moaned from the floor. She had been in fits all day, and Giles was at his wits' end.

I never thought I'd wish you were here, but Spike—I wish you were here!

He had offered her water, tea, wine, and blood. Dangled necklaces, trinkets, and priceless artifacts before her. Nothing. Taking an outrageous risk (at least as far as he knew; it was daytime, but he wasn't sure yet that Angel had departed the grounds), he left his home and ventured out to the shops for her. Giles returned from one of the antiques sellers with an exquisite porcelain doll, one that was about as old as Drusilla and just as costly.

The vampire didn't register the Watcher's return until he crouched down to her, offering his gift. With tears, she looked up at him. He hated that he pitied her, but it just seemed as though it couldn't be helped.

Drusilla received the doll wordlessly but with great care, her pain quieting as she ran her nails over the doll's lovely locks. Then, just as suddenly, she dashed the doll's head against the stiff rug.

Giles rocked back with shock, watching the doll's glass eyes roll off the rug and under the sofa.

What on earth...?

The moment Dru saw the empty eye sockets, she sighed and wiped her tears away.

"Miss Violet and I will carry on splendidly, isn't that right?" she asked the poppet.

"Er...yes...good." Giles stood up shakily, trying to gather his bearings. One of them had to, at least. He hoped whatever had her in a tizzy was something less than cataclysmic.

.



.

Willow must have been in a dimensional 'lay-over' or something, because after about five minutes she noticed some relatively familiar scents—like garbage, and alcohol, and...eww, was that pee? A minute or so later she heard the sounds of a bustling street, and then another minute on she got visuals. It was an old neighborhood, with buildings that looked like they were decaying but activity that definitely proved otherwise. As she walked out of the alley she materialized in, she was assailed by even richer scents—sweat and silt and blood and wood and food. Delicious, spicy food.

The witch felt in her pockets, but she had only a handful of spare change.

Hrm.

She intoned a spell to remedy that. It fizzled like a doused wick.

What the...?

Closing her eyes, she tried another, simpler, spell. Not even a crackle.

She called out to Tara in her mind, but that didn't go through either. Tara would probably be looking for her soon, though. She'd hear her lover's voice and everything would be fine again.

Only...no. Before she teleported out, Willow had placed a ward on herself so that she couldn't be found—mentally or physically.

Dammit. All she really wanted was some time to gather herself together. Now she was who-knows-where, without money and without powers. Again.

Great going, Willow.

.



.

Spike was chain-smoking in the living room. This good-guy thing was too hard to keep track of. He had tried to do right by the Scoobies and give Willow a chance. (Against his better judgement, his demon often reminded him.) She needed support and encouragement and hugs and blah blah blah. She even got bloody Glinda back, and if that wasn't a blessing from the deities, he didn't know what was. So, why the fuck were they back to panicking over what she was up to again? He really needed some ultra-violence tonight, all Clockwork Orange-style.

In the guest room, Tara was trying to follow the magic trail Willow left. She had first attempted to chat with her telepathically, but the message met a magicked wall. It was almost like the mental equivalent of a vampire de-invite spell. This was not happening. No. The magic was definitely a teleportation spell. One that took a LOT of power. Power that she would have siphoned from the Hellmouth. And, certainly, Willow had to know that unless she teleported herself to another Hellmouth, she'd never get back the same way. The only answer Tara could come up with, then, was that Willow had meant to leave them, leave her.

When Spike heard the good witch's sobbing, he stubbed out his cigarette and rushed to her side. She solidified against him, holding tight for minutes, hours—they couldn't tell. They stayed that way until a loud thump landed against the apartment door. Spike growled at the interruption, but Tara's tearfully hopeful eyes begged him to check, in case it was Willow, locked-out.

It wasn't.

Gar stood at the threshold, a crumpled and bloodied body slumped over his shoulder. A hunter with a trophy catch.

Spike's demon rose at the familiar fragrance. This was his prey. "She's not dead."

"Wasn't for me to kill," Gar replied plainly, dropping the bokor's body between them.

"And Papa Jean?"

Gar stepped over the body and into Spike's apartment. He needed a shot of something after this. The bitch had really given him a run for his money. "You were right that he was harboring her, but it wasn't him who ordered it."

Spike stared at the woman, following the lines of blood trickling down her skin. She wouldn't last much longer. His nostrils flared, wanting to remember this scent. "Who then?"

The Kailiff took the last swig from Spike's bottle of Jack Daniels. He stooped down and hoisted the bokor up so that she was facing Spike. "Tell him, witch."

The bokor moaned. Gar gripped her shoulder hard enough that something cracked. "Zanj lan!" she gasped, fading.

Spike had no idea what that meant, so his eyes darted to Gar's.

"The angel," Gar replied, sure that the vampire would know what to do with that answer.

And he did. As soon as the bokor took her final breath, Spike dove in, angrily drinking down her dead blood. Angel. She was working for him, targeting God-only-knows who else. Witches, he surmised. Perhaps she even had something to do with Willow's disappearance.

Tara hovered in the shadows of the hallway, watching the scene. Part of her knew she should be horrified, but another part of her thought that this was what happened when you messed with the dark arts. Spike really hadn't done anything wrong; the sorceress was already dead. Would they be able to keep Willow from suffering a similar fate? That, she didn't know.

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