Part Four

Marie sat back on her heels, puffing out her exhaustion and wiped the sweat from her brow, leaving streaks of blacking on her work coarsened skin. At this time of night and without the benefit of the range, the kitchen was chill and the contrast between her overheated body and the cold made her shiver. She closed her eyes, hearing the sounds of the other servants through the thick walls of the house, louder than any of them would have dared if the master and mistress were at home. For a moment, before remembering M. Jean's wandering hands and long lecherous looks, she wished she could join them, even knowing that as the most junior maid it was impossible. Another shudder rattled through her thin form at the memory of the butler's attentions and she bent back to her task, the soft brush working the blacking into the metal range.

Completely absorbed in her work, she only noticed the muted knocking on the back door when a distinct urgency entered the tattoo. She rose, dropping her tools, and hurried to answer, remembering at the last moment the butler's warning to check the window before opening the door. A cloaked figure huddled against the wall and, as it turned into the light, Marie saw it was a young woman, about her own age but with an ethereal beauty she could never dream of possessing. The woman knocked again, glancing nervously up and down the narrow lane that traversed the rear of the property and without another thought Marie turned the key and cracked open the door.

"Please help me!" The visitor's desperate voice pleaded as soon as the door opened. "There are men, following me. Please let me come in."

The cry for help, on the heels of personal experience, was enough to convince Marie. She threw the door wide and held out her hand to grab the young woman, who flinched away from her.

"I won't hurt you. Though there's many out there that might. Come in, be safe."

The woman stepped over the threshold, still rejecting Marie's hand, and glanced nervously around the large kitchen. Marie closed the door behind her and then pushed past further into the room heading for a cupboard. "There is no coffee I am afraid. The master does not think it an appropriate drink for servants but I can offer you a glass of wine."

She turned to smile at her visitor, who had moved to sit at the large table, her pale fingers tracing over the copper pans that covered its surface. Sensing the other woman's unease she placed a full glass in front of her and asked carefully, "Do you have a name? Mine is Marie."

Liquid blue eyes met hers and the woman whispered, "Darla."

"That's a nice name."

A loud thud rattled the windows and Darla's head shot round fearfully. Marie laughed, "Don't worry. The master and mistress are from home and the others are enjoying the peace and quiet."

"How many of you are there?"

It was an odd question but not so strange that Marie didn't answer. "Three maids and the butler. The rest of the household travelled to the country."

"Good." The pan smacked into the side of Marie's head and she dropped to the ground with nary a whimper. "Enough to keep the wolf from the door without the inconvenience of a fight."

An hour later Darla had all four servants trussed and gagged in the larder, and was sitting at the cellar window her eyes trained on the house across the street. As she'd suspected, this place provided an excellent view of the Watcher's hideaway. From here even a vampire could monitor their comings and goings, during the daylight hours as well as at night and sooner or later they were bound to make a mistake.

She would be waiting.

***

"That went well."

Angelus growled inaudibly and stalked on ahead through the bustling corridors, side stepping the occasional piece of walking scenery and ignoring the apologies launched in his direction by their accompanying stagehands. At the next junction he sought out the darkest way and strode down it keeping his own counsel.

Never being much of a one for taking a hint, Spike bounced up alongside him and added with a smirk, "Really. It did. Object lesson in seduction, that was. Swept the poor chit off her feet, I'm sure."

Extreme violence was inappropriate in front of so many humans, or so Angelus kept telling himself while ignoring the continued baiting. The growl grew distinctly louder.

"Reckon the trying to stake yourself when she said she didn't love you might have been a bit much though."

Angelus' hand automatically found the small tear in his jacket where the point of the chair leg had damaged the cloth, and the skin beneath. Stupid. Foolish. The girl had made a fool of him - and he couldn't remember how. Just entering the dressing room and then her eyes. Huge and dark, filling his vision, possessing his mind until.

A sharp finger jabbed into his ribs. "Good job I was there, mate. Else the cleaner'd be sweeping you off the floor about now."

The growl erupted as a full-grown roar as Angelus felt his temper snap.

Spike howled when a hand shot out and gripped his ear, twisting it sharply. "Oi! Lay off. That bloody hurts!"

Angelus didn't hear him, didn't notice when Spike rose onto his toes as the over-stressed flesh started to give. Couldn't hear or see anything. He was blinded by rage, lust and a lingering sense of induced helplessness that had him desperate to reassert control.

Five steps down a thankfully deserted corridor brought them level with a stout plain wooden door, which he kicked wide, the crash resounding hollowly through the large room. Spike had just enough time to register that the floor was polished wood before they got more intimately acquainted.

"Oof!" For the second time that evening the air was forced from his lungs as Angelus landed heavily on his back. And then the punches started. Head, shoulders, ribs. Not the ribs again! Driven by pure instinct, Spike tried to curl, to protect his head with his arms, and failed. Above the dull sounds of his flesh being bruised he heard Angelus snarling, the bestial noise slowly resolving into something resembling human speech.

"Damned thrall. Tried to control me. Do what she wanted. Just a human."

Each ragged phrase was punctuated by another blow until Angelus grabbed Spike's head in a punishing grip and started to twist. Panic surged through Spike's body egged on by the words now tumbling from Angelus' lips. "Kill her! Rip her a-fucking-part!"

Christ, Spike thought as the pressure increased, stretching his neck back and round, he's actually going to do it! He's going to finish me!

In sheer desperation he bucked violently, trying to throw Angelus off him. The older vampire teetered for a moment before lurching forwards, releasing his grip on Spike's head to catch his weight on his hands. Spike wriggled backward between Angelus legs, shoes scuffling on the floor and, when clear, rolled to his feet and made for the door. A mere foot from safety he was captured again and this time hurled into the wall, hitting it face first; his head rebounding and wrenching already stretched neck muscles. He must have blacked out for a moment; he wasn't sure and it didn't matter. Fingers scrabbling on the plaster and dress shoes sliding on the polished wood, Spike managed to turn, bracing the length of his aching body on the wall and raising his fists in preparation for the next assault.

It didn't come.

In fact the room appeared empty.

Not wanting to be caught unawares, Spike strained his senses around the shadowed room for any clue as to where Angelus might be. His scent was still ripe on the air and too fresh for the young vampire to distinguish present from recent past.

"Angelus?"

The words were spoken as much for company as for information. Silence as hungry as the darkness gaped around him, threatening to devour everything. Maybe it had taken Angelus already?

The moon chose that moment to throw off her cloak of clouds, raising the ambient light level to useful intensity and revealing the vast size of the room. He'd suspected as much. Even in the darkness he had felt the walls reaching away from him and the quietest sounds had echoed around it. Cold white light spilled through windows filling one wall and reflected back off the huge mirrors that covered the other. Some sort of rehearsal space, then. For the dancers probably. But still no sign of Angelus.

Spike slumped down the wall, pain and exhaustion winning out over wariness. It had been a hell of a night and despite the ragging he'd given Angelus, Spike knew he hadn't been immune to the singer's charms himself. Being aware of the danger was nowhere near enough to protect you from it, he mused, and it been the resurgence of William's literary inclinations that had saved him yet again. The threat of reverting to the lily-livered mortal he'd once been was just sufficient to break through Christine's thrall in the nick of time and save both himself and Angelus.

He wet his lips with his tongue, tasted blood and wiped at his nose with his sleeve. A blaze of pain shot through his face and the material came away streaked red against black. His nose might not have been broken when he hit the wall but it still hurt like the blazes. He wiped again, more carefully this time using his hand rather than his jacket and then licked his fingers clean.

<Click>

Hand frozen in place at the minute mechanical sound, Spike raised his head, scanning the still empty room. Nothing had changed. Or had it. Was that shadow in the corner deeper? The mirrored wall not quite as long?

A figure moved in the darkness and Spike rose to his feet, bloody nose forgotten.

"That was. interesting."

As Angelus' voice emerged from the shadows, Spike tensed, expecting the older vampire to take up where he'd left off. He didn't. Instead he sauntered into the centre of the room, hands deep in his pockets and all trace of his previous rage gone from his face.

"What was?" Spike asked warily.

Angelus spun on his heel, walking backwards as he nodded towards the corner where he'd reappeared. "Secret passageway. I'm willing to bet the whole place is riddled with them." He turned back round with a skip in his step and sporting a smug grin, the only thing needed to complete the picture of total relaxation was a cheery whistle.

This sudden change in countenance did absolutely nothing to alleviate Spike's suspicions. Normally Angelus didn't bother concealing his emotions around family, gloating was after all, something of a penchant for the other vampire. However Spike had seen his mentor interact with humans often enough to know that he could practice such deception with considerable ease and he wasn't about to be taken in.

"Uhuh?" He stepped forward a few paces, curious but careful, folded his arms and stared past Angelus towards the guilty corner.

Now the angles had changed Spike could see that what had looked like a simple shadow was actually an illusion caused by the mirror that had pivoted to reveal a concealed opening. That noted, his gaze skipped back to Angelus and he raised an eyebrow questioningly. "So, you finished trying to rip my head off?"

Angelus shrugged, "Probably."

"Not the most reassuring answer." Spike ducked his head, thinking hard and then glanced up at Angelus through his eyelashes. "Don't suppose it's worth asking why?" he asked quietly.

Accidentally stumbling upon the secret passageway had temporarily quelled Angelus' rage but it had done nothing for his lingering lust and the boy seemed to have no concept of how seductive he was standing there looking so demure. Angelus felt his cock twitch and took a step forward, leaning in until his mouth was level with Spike's ear.

"Nope," he said, popping the p and smirking at the shiver it elicited. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, tasting the faint flavours of Darla that permeated the younger vampire's skin. The scent was hardly a surprise and it gave him something to play with. "Was she good?" he whispered. "Did you enjoy having my woman?"

"I, um, I." Spike stuttered, flinching and taking a step back, reinstating the distance between them. His eyes remained firmly downcast and his fingers fidgeted with his jacket buttons.

The faux innocence and reluctance simply added to Angelus' excitement and he encroached on Spike's personal space for a second time. "She's one hell of a fuck. But then you already knew that." His voice dropped to a rumble. "Did she go down on you? Suck you off? Jesus, what a mouth."

Their two-step progressed across the room, Spike reacting with increasing agitation and confusion to Angelus' lewd commentary, head turning from side to side as he tried to avoid meeting his mentor's eye. Angelus pursued him, rising amusement now warring with lust. "Do you think she'd do both of us? Me in her mouth while you fuck her? Sounds good, doesn't it."

The wooden exercise bar pressing into Spike's back brought the dance to a premature halt and Angelus took advantage, leaning in again and breathing against the younger vampire's neck. Fear still outweighed arousal so he tried another tack. "Or maybe you could fuck her while I fuck you?"

Spike gulped in a huge lungful of air and the full flavour of his arousal soared off the scale. Angelus' lips curled into a satisfied grin, the right combination at last. Careful that their bodies didn't touch he hummed thoughtfully and flicked out his tongue to taste the rivulet of dried blood that ran from Spike's ear to his collar. A hand pushed ineffectually at his chest. Angelus ignored it, continuing to lave a clean path down Spike's neck, nuzzling in closer and trapping the hand between them. When the blood was gone he reached up and pulled the collar to one side, exposing more of that tantalising neck - and twin puncture marks that were unmistakably Darla's.

A wave of possessive lust skidded through Angelus at the sight and he yanked firmly at the starched collar ripping it away. His mouth immediately covered the wounds, his fangs descending to reopen them and he suckled gently as Spike whimpered against his shoulder. Jacket and shirt buttons popped under his searching fingers, both garments quickly pushed to the floor and away.

Bruises bloomed across Spike's ribs, some fresh, others already starting to fade. They formed a pretty decoration and Angelus couldn't resist tracing them, pressing into the more colourful ones and smirking when the younger vampire gasped painfully.

As Angelus' fangs and fingers teased, Spike clutched at the waist high bar behind him, unsure of what to do with his hands. This was what he'd wanted the other night only to be pushed aside in favour of Dru and it wasn't fair, god damn it. All the girls had to do was flutter their eyelashes and Angelus was all over them, so why shouldn't he?

His trousers were the next to go, the soft material sliding down his legs as large fingers closed around his erection causing his hips to thrust wantonly. Angelus sniggered against his neck and Spike fought down the feelings of shame the overt mockery educed. Want. Take. Have. And if being easy was the only thing that worked, he didn't care. So long as Angelus' mouth was on him, making his blood sing, he'd happily play the part of reluctantly seduced victim. There was time enough later for macho posturing.

"Do you want me to fuck you?"

Unless of course Angelus completely humiliated him.

Spike's mouth turned out to have less pride than his brain because it answered for him. "Yes! Christ, yes," the words escaping in a rush of air.

"Tell me."

Pride be damned. He was as horny as hell. Role forgotten, Spike jerked forward into Angelus' grip and growled, "Fuck me. Now!"

"Oo. Demanding aren't we."

The tone was highly amused but it carried a dark undercurrent of desire and Spike rapidly found himself facing the mirror, his hands gripping wood as Angelus rocked against him insistently. Lips teased up and down his neck and Spike groaned with frustration, pushing back with his hips and tilting his head in the hopes that Angelus took the hint.

He did, flipping his own trousers open to release his aching erection and rubbing the wet head between the pale clenching buttocks before him. It was met by an answering slickness that had Angelus' immediately suspicious. Had Spike set out to seduce him? Not that it mattered at this very moment. Nothing did, except slipping into the tight arse that was writhing against him.

Sinking his fangs into Spike's nape, Angelus eased himself forwards feeling the puckered muscle stretch slowly around him, gripping his cock with a pressure that bordered on painful. One hand slid round from its steadying hold on Spike's hip and intruded on where they were so tenuously joined, his thumb rubbing in soothing circles. Spike started to pant, relaxing slightly and allowing Angelus to gain a couple of inches of penetration. But that was all and when Angelus withdrew his fangs, Spike dropped his head forward, shudders racking his body.

"Do it," Spike virtually sobbed, disbelieving of his body's attempts to reject the welcome intrusion. Two minutes ago he had wanted this more than anything. Hell's, he'd been fantasising about this since the steamer to Jersey, the last time Angelus had taken him this way. And now his body was reneging on the deal? Well, he wasn't going to take no for an answer, anymore than Angelus would. "Just. fucking just do it."

There was no answer for a moment and then Angelus' voice questioned, "Are you sure? You'll tear."

Spike shook his head, "Don't care. Gotta happen. Need it. Need you."

Not needing a second invitation, Angelus drove in feeling delicate tissues surrender deliciously and smelling the tantalising flavour of blood bursting on the air. The temptation to continue was overwhelming as the tight channel engulfed his erection, clenching and milking him, until Spike keened and banged his head gently on the mirror. At one time Angelus wouldn't have cared; in fact he would have enjoyed the pain he was causing, but that was before he discovered how good this could be without force. There had to be something he could do, besides stopping, to make this better for both of them.

"Lift your leg," he ordered gently, patting the back of Spike's thigh by way of qualification. The younger vampire did as he was bid, resting his right knee on the exercise bar. It changed the angles, making Spike lean forwards and rise up onto his toes when balance became an issue. Angelus withdrew slightly and began to rock gently, letting the residual oil and fresh blood ease his way. It seemed to help; the keening faltered and became whimpers, more of desire than pain and when Angelus thrust more forcefully Spike started his usually litany of incoherent words, "please" and "more" foremost among them.

Lost in the sensations being drawn from his body, Spike's awareness of his surroundings faded. His skin burned under Angelus' ceaseless touch, fingers pinching and rolling his nipples and teeth nipping his neck never quite breaking the skin. Each thrust made stars explode behind his eyes, his cock leaping and twitching under the assault. He couldn't move, couldn't touch himself without letting go of the bar and the whole took responsibility away from him, turned him into a vessel being used for another's pleasure. The implied helplessness saw him writhing with unexpected lust, crying Angelus' name and calling him sire, begging for a little more, a little harder. Angelus complied; grinding his hips and a snarl broke from Spike's lips as a large hand enclosed his dripping erection, working him closer and closer to the edge. His arms shook with strain and by the time sharp fangs finally pierced his neck he came hard, tears of sheer relief stinging at his eyes.

Only then did Angelus turn his attentions to his own satisfaction and all Spike could do was hang on for the ride, the bar flexing under his hands as the air was driven from his lungs in rhythmic guttural grunts. The power of the thrusts nearly took his balance and Spike shook his head, trying to clear the post orgasmic haze so he could concentrate on remaining upright. With a dissatisfied growl Angelus pushed Spike's leg higher, adding to the depth he could gain and Spike felt his other foot lose contact with the ground. For a second he feared he would fall, but he needn't have worried. Realising what was happening Angelus held Spike's hips taking his weight as the younger vampire brought his other leg up opposite the first.

It did the trick; with Spike effectively kneeling against the bar Angelus was able to completely dictate the pace and he did exactly that, slamming them together with increasing ferocity, a pliant body being exactly what he needed to expel the remnants of his rage along with his lust. The roar built in his chest as his climax tightened in his sac and they both exploded from him simultaneously, the walls rattling as he vocalised his release. He slumped forwards heavily, his softening cock slipping from Spike's throbbing hole, peripherally aware of a concerned yelp and the sound of something slamming into the floor.

For long seconds neither of them moved, each taking the time to recover from their exertions until an elbow jabbed back into Angelus' side, "Look at that."

"Huh?" Angelus lifted his head and blinked blearily at the empty mirror. "What?"

"There's no reflection."

"We're vampires, Will. Of course there's no reflection."

"No, yer daft bugger. There." Spike's finger indicated slightly lower on the reflective surface, now covered in come. "You'd think it'd reflect after if came out, wouldn't you."

Sniggering at the petulant tone in the younger vampire's voice, Angelus stood up and tucked himself away. Spike was still staring at the mirror; head cocked to one side and studying the streaks as though they would spontaneously develop a reflection.

Angelus watched for a moment and then, patting the naked backside in front of him, said, "Don't tell me, `it's not bloody fair.'"

Spike cringed at his mentor's appalling mimicry and replied, "You could at least try and sound like you'd heard of London. And no, it's got nothing to do with unfair. Just interesting is all. Does anything reflect?"

The question was met with a shrug, so Spike hawked, spat and then crowed happily, "Heh, that doesn't either!" at his new discovery.

It was something akin to having a younger sibling around the place, Angelus reflected with an indulgent grin. The incessant questions, the mindless enthusiasm for the smallest things. It reminded him of. An unhappy growl erupted from his throat at the memory of his sister. He hadn't thought about her for years and he wasn't about to start now just because some stupid fledgling couldn't control his mouth.

"Spike!" he snarled, tossing discarded clothing in the younger vampire's direction. "Put some damned clothes on. I don't need to be looking at your skinny poch any longer than I have to."

Hurt skated across Spike's face, deadening the colour of his eyes before he could bend to pick up his clothes. When he stood, dangling his trousers from one finger, the usual cocky smirk had taken its place. "Don't remember you complaining a bit ago," he leered, lifting his chin defiantly in Angelus' direction.

For a minute Angelus let him think he'd won, watching as Spike started to dress, and then he said clearly, "Was that before or after you begged me to fuck you."

The smirk vanished as Spike's nostrils flared and his jaw clenched in anger, and Angelus wished he could rip his traitorous tongue right out of his mouth. This was not the way it was supposed to be. He'd settled on sex as the best way to control the young demon and alienating him from those very sensations was not going to help his cause. For a moment their eyes locked and Angelus thought he saw the hint of tears hidden behind the layers of bravado that populated Spike's face. Then it was gone, hidden behind glacial rage.

"Fuck you, Angelus!"

Clothes more askew than worn, Spike stormed towards the door preparing to do one of his patented door-slamming exits and Angelus knew he couldn't let that happen. If he did they would be back to stage one, that destructive cycle of physical aggression and violence he'd hoped they'd left behind in England.

"Will?"

The briefest of hesitations stalled Spike's hand on the door and Angelus took full advantage. He ripped rapidly into his wrist, knowing the scent of his blood was more eloquent than any words and offered it over. "You're hurt."

Tense silence wrapped around both figures on the heels of the offer, broken only by the metronome sound of thick, coagulating blood hitting the wooden floor. Spike's back, unyielding stone under his shirt, remained facing Angelus and the older vampire could think of nothing else he could do or say to rebuild the tenuous trust he had destroyed with his thoughtlessness.

Imperceptibly Spike began to crumble, his shoulders dropped, then his head, and his hands unfurled from their clenched position at his sides. Finally a deep bone-melting sigh soughed through him and he turned, cocking his head slightly as he spoke, "Reckon I could do with a drop. Thanks."

Angelus held his arm out and Spike approached slowly, eyes locked on his mentor's, still wary of cruel blows and crueller words. He'd opened up, risked everything in that moment of passion only to have it returned to him as vicious barbs and even as he recognised the offer of blood as an apology of sorts he wasn't about to make that mistake again.

Their fingers met, Spike's crawling up Angelus' hand to capture his bleeding wrist and carry it to his mouth. As his head bent and his lips sealed around the wound, Angelus risked laying the other hand on the back of Spike's neck. The sudden tensing of muscle and a momentary cessation of feeding met his reconciliatory gesture, so he added the gentle caress of his thumb to the soft hair at Spike's nape. The careful sucking started up again and Angelus guided his charge into the circle of his arms until they were close enough for him not to have to worry that Spike would bolt.

Taking a deep breath he ventured returning them to some level of normality. "There's still Christine."

Spike mumbled something unintelligible and Angelus laughed, tugging softly at his hair. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to speak with your mouth full."

Lips curled into a smile against his skin and Spike raised his eyes, their golden colour dancing with amusement. "I said, you'll get the bird. Just need a plan is all."

"You're immune. Maybe if you weakened her." Angelus trailed off as Spike released his wrist and stood up, shaking his head.

"Not enough. She coulda had me, same as you."

"What then?"

"Dunno. She's holding all the aces. And with so many people around we can't even go for a quick kill without raising suspicions. Reckon her eyes are the key though. That's all I can remember. Her eyes. Maybe if we blindfolded her. That might work."

Angelus paused, his jacket sleeve rolled halfway down his arm. "What did you say?"

Shrugging, Spike finished it for him and moved on to his tie. "Just that she's in charge. Got the power, you know."

"Not that."

"Erm. eyes?"

"No. People." Angelus brushed off Spike's fussing and started to pace. "We've been going about this all wrong. The singer is human and not a gypsy, so where has she learned thrall. It has to be from another vampire. And the first time I met her she didn't try anything so that suggests that the vampire is still around."

Spike watched with increasing bemusement as Angelus worked through the problem. "Yeah? So?"

"If he's around he must be feeding. If he's feeding, we can find him. Taking Christine is too risky, so we go to the source." Angelus stopped in his tracks and spun round a self-satisfied grin on his face. "Hunt down the vampire and destroy it, then take out the girl."

"Yeah." Spike said slowly. "Only one trouble with that. If he taught her to do the thrall thing, what's stopping him from doing it himself."

Anger flashed across Angelus' face when he realised Spike was right and he retorted, "Fine, so what would you do?"

"Wait till she goes out, knock her over the head, stick a blindfold on her and take her back to the house. That way you can take your time killing her and not have to worry about her playing about in your head."

Damn. That was a good plan and Angelus knew it. Except. "Except someone will have to watch for her leaving the building. Day and night."

Spike's eyes went wide at the significant look Angelus was giving him. Stay out during the day, skulking in the shadows and running the continuous risk of being exposed? That was a dangerous task. Not one to be taken on lightly. It meant trust and respect and.

He folded his arms brazenly across his chest and nodded. "I'll do it."

***

"The only possible solution I can see is to wait until after the child is born and brought out of the house and then kidnap it. But it means someone having to watch the place by both day and night. She could give birth at any time and I am certain the Council will not inform us when it happens."

Angelus shook his head, not believing he was having this same conversation twice in the same twenty-four hour period. It had been a long night, he hadn't fed, and when Darla met him armed with the address of a Watcher's Council safe house and dragged him back out to reconnoitre in the hours before dawn, he'd followed in something of a fug. Now Darla was reiterating Spike's plan for Christine only this time with Lily's brat in the starring role and he was the one who got baby-sitting duty.

He sighed, pathetically. Whatever happened to the good old days of blood and mayhem. Somewhere along the line his unlife had become far too complicated.

"Angelus? Are you listening to me?"

Far be it for him ever to accuse Darla of nagging. "Yes, dear. You want me to watch for signs of Lily giving birth."

"Precisely. They will be looking out for me, though perhaps not you. The house opposite has a cellar with windows that overlook the street and the family is away from home. I have already gained an invitation for us from the servants, so you will have food on tap, for a while at least. Now."

As Darla went on to detail her idea, Angelus stopped listening. There was no conceivable way this plan could work.

Part Five

"Come, dance with me."

Spike shrugged off the drunken prostitute's hand, resigned to another night alone. Around him whirled the colours and music of nightlife down the Boulevard des Italiens, more food than he could eat in a century, he reckoned, and all of it off limits. If bodies started turning up around here then the gendarme would start asking questions and sooner or later someone would mention the Englishman who sat, night after flaming night, watching the opera house.

At least for these few hours he could relax a little. Unlike the daytime when he was stuck lurking under the café awnings and trees, skipping from one to the next as the sun moved through in the sky. So far Christine had left the place three times, on each occasion it had been during the day and down sunlit streets where he was helpless to follow. The first time he had abandoned his post come dusk and attempted to track her scent through the streets hoping that she had a specific destination in mind where he could set up shop and wait for her to come to him. But it was hopeless. The singer had obviously been shopping and he lost her trail as it wound into the food markets of Les Halles. Still at least he'd fed that night.

Now he was so hungry it was becoming a distraction.

A couple strolled towards him, arm in arm, their laughter and jolly conversation insufficient to drown out the sound of their hearts beating so temptingly near. The thrum of blood surrounding them was intoxicating, heady with wine and passion. Soon they drew close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from their bodies, the pulse in their necks a hypnotic beat through skin as translucent as a fragile shroud. God, what he wouldn't give for some of that.

"Excuse me, monsieur?" A hand tapped on his shoulder and Spike jumped, nearly changing into demon face as rage and hunger warred inside him. It was a damn good thing he'd learned some control since the incident at Lily's London house, because a gendarme, all dressed up in his daft blue uniform, accompanied the tapper, a portly middle aged chap with curly brown hair.

"Yeah?"

"Would you mind coming with me?"

Immediately suspicious, Spike glared at both humans and then around at the crowds, wondering if he could off them without attracting attention. Unlikely. It made more sense to play along for now. "Why?" he asked, keeping his tone as mild as possible.

The commissary of police, because that was what he had to be with such a self-important puffed up attitude, thrust out his chest like a cockerel about to crow and announced; "Recent events at the opera house have been called to our attention. And we have reason to believe that you may be, in some way, involved."

Spike narrowed his eyes, the only outward sign of his displeasure at having his cover blown. Hells and damnation, he griped silently, couldn't anything go his way for once? The officer continued on regardless.

"I'm sure there is nothing to worry about. But several people have witnessed you loitering in this spot watching the opera house and we would simply like you to answer some questions."

Sighing theatrically, Spike put on the air of a hard pressed young man and said sadly, "You want to know why I'm here and what I'm doing?"

"Precisely, monsieur."

"Right then. I'll do better than that. I'll show you." Spike rose to his feet and started to walk away. After a moment's hesitation the two gendarmes followed.

He led them quickly away from the thronging streets, chatting evenly about how his sister was having an affair with an unsuitable young man and that the couple had been seen together in the general area of the opera house. And that in a moment he would introduce them to someone that could corroborate his tale thus rendering any accusations groundless.

The two humans remained silent, bemused by the sudden affability of the young man they had been sent to detain and when he paused in front of them and waved them forwards into the shadows, they went willingly, eager to see what it was he wanted to show them. The uniformed officer went down silently screaming through his crushed larynx and clutching his smashed knee. The commissary wasn't as lucky, finding himself pinned against the alley wall by a monster with glowing yellow eyes.

"What events?" The creature rasped out between fangs the policeman didn't feel inclined to examine too closely.

Acting on an instinct for self-preservation he'd cultivated through years in the gendarmerie, Mifroid answered, "M-murders."

As the policeman watched, the creature's face changed, melting back into the human guise it had worn when they first met, the arm restraining him was removed and the beast took a step back.

"Murders? What sort of murders?"

The question was asked sincerely and the quizzical expression too genuine to be forced. "The singing master and several stagehands. Rumour has it that the opera ghost is responsible but the evidence suggests it was done by some sort of wild dog. The injuries were consistent with."

Mifroid's voice died away and the blood rushed from his face as the image of those dreadful fangs sprang into his mind, fangs that were more than capable of inflicting the sorts of wounds that had been found on the bodies. In that instant the rumours of a ghost haunting the opera house didn't seem far-fetched at all.

"So the sneaky little bastard's feeding inside. That would explain why we haven't seen hide nor hair of him. Might explain why Christine hasn't been out and about much either. If she's under his thrall and everything."

Spike paced as he talked, keeping one eye on the single gendarme who was still conscious though looking a bit green around the gills. The other one was out cold, presumably from the pain, but still alive. This new information was vital and threw their plans for a loop. Between the two of them, he and Angelus had decided that the vampire controlling Christine would have to leave her alone when he ventured out to feed and they were hoping that she would go out then, at night, giving Spike a chance to snatch her.

"Are you talking about Christine Daae? The singer?"

"Huh? Yeah, why?"

"Because one of the victims was her singing teacher and the murderer left a note insisting she be allowed to sing the lead."

"Really? And they went along with that?" Spike tried to sound intelligently interested and failed abysmally, hearing the confusion in his own voice. This whole thing was getting increasingly complicated and it made his brain hurt to think about it. Telling Angelus when he swung by for an update was probably the best way forward but now that the police had noticed him he couldn't even stay outside to watch for Christine. Maybe.

Oh, fuck it. He was too hungry to think straight.

"Sorry mate, you've just become brain food," Spike muttered under his breath to the unconscious policeman, casually hauling him up and draining him. As he dropped the corpse the distinct sounds of retching and acidic scent of vomit reached him and he turned disgustedly to his prisoner. "Did you have to do that? It's not polite to throw up when a bloke's trying to eat."

Wiping his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, Mifroid forced himself to stand up. "Wha-what are you?"

It was too good an opportunity to miss. Spike got right in his face, pushing him back against the wall and allowed his demon forward, hissing, "What do you think I am? You're the sodding know-it-all bobby."

Cold fetid breath skated across his face and an impossibly strong hand grabbed his chin, forcing his head to one side. Fangs wet with his friend's blood grazed his neck and Mifroid felt his gorge rise again and his bowels loosen in abject terror. He started to pray.

"Lord Jesus Christ, who willest that no man should perish."

"Not. Going. To help." The words muttered against his skin froze the petition in Mifroid's throat and he died ignorant and disbelieving of what was killing him.

***

"Urgh! Stop! There's someone coming out of the house."

"Not stopping. Can't stop."

Darla forced Angelus' mouth away from her neck and tried not to be distracted as she observed the figure hovering in the doorway across the street. Strict focus wasn't an easy task when you were being fucked against the wall by a lover whom you hadn't seen for three days, especially one who held out magnificently, ensuring you were well and truly sated before pursuing his own pleasure. Still they were here to do a job and even if he was doing that thing - oh god! - with his hips. "Angelus!" She punched hard him on the arm. "Stop!"

"Just a Watcher," he panted in her ear, his urgent thrusts becoming ragged as he slammed her backside into the crumbling brick. "Always. Christ!. coming and going. No respect. Oh. Fuck!"

His body shuddered as he spent and his head dropped to her shoulder where he nuzzled an apology. "Too good, lover."

Fingers wrapped in his hair, Darla glanced through the window to see Angelus was entirely correct. When the figure emerged to stand in the sunlight, it was obviously only a Watcher, and she recognised him as one of the ones that came and went regularly during the day.

"Told you." Angelus commented, and then sought out her mouth for another demanding kiss. It was at least another hour before either of them spoke again.

**

"Stay tonight?"

Darla was seated on his lap as they both kept watch and he felt her answer before she spoke. "No. And you know why. If I am seen out then no one will suspect that we are still targeting the child. With both you and Spike absent it will seem as though the pair of you are doing something together." She stroked his arms, taking the sting out of her words. It may be the truth but it still hurt when they had to spend so much time apart. "Where did you send him by the way? Drusilla is missing him."

"Just to tidy up some business," he dissembled not wanting to get bogged down in an argument about his vendetta. "You and Dru could bring me dinner then. I want to hang on to that one," Angelus nodded at the butler tied to the chair. "It's useful having someone who knows the visitors that keep coming round. He tells them there's sickness and they run away."

"Perhaps I may do that." Darla offered up her lips for a kiss and Angelus obliged. When they parted she stood up to leave and asked, "What do you fancy?"

"Something young and blonde. Something we can share."

***

"Ow! Sod it all!" Groping blindly across the uneven dusty floor, Spike groused morosely as he searched for the candle. "Ah! Got you, you little bugger," he muttered triumphantly a moment later, only to hurriedly toss the object away when it turned out to have legs. "Not a candle, then. Unless there's magic stuff going on down here too."

Talking for the sheer pleasure of hearing a real voice, and because he'd got fed up with chatting inside his head, he added, "Doesn't make you mad though. Not until you start arguing with yerself. Hmm, now that feels more like it."

Candle located, he shuffled back against the wall, jammed it between his feet and dug around in his pocket for a matchbook. It was damp from the clammy air, it took two attempts to get one to light and the resultant flame guttered meekly, hardly illuminating more than his shoes. "Better than nothing, I suppose," he said. "Hells, a match is better than nothing down here."

He sighed volubly, and clambered to his feet, taking care this time not to fall as he made his way across the rough stone floor. "Great plan, Spike. You could be outside enjoying the sights but where are you? Stuck in the bowels of the Paris bloody opera house, tripping over yer feet and getting lost. Haven't even found the girl yet either. Prat."

That probably did qualify as arguing with himself, so he stopped quickly, focusing on the tantalising scent that had led him in this direction in the first place. It smelled like Christine, though why she was wandering around where it was too dark for even a vampire to see properly remained a mystery. Cautiously following the wall with his free hand, golden eyes straining to see further into the shadows, Spike stumbled off down the passageway.

Before the candle had completely disappeared from view a shadow detached itself from the wall and moved confidently after him.

***

Christine woke with her pulse hammering in her neck and her throat constricted with jagged lumps of fear. Cold sweat drenched her body as pools of icy moisture formed between her breasts and ran like dead fingers down her belly when she rose shakily to sit on the edge of her bed. Exhausted beyond hope, the singer rested her head in her trembling hands, searching for a moment of peace where she could escape her nightmares. This attempt, like all those that had preceded it, came to naught. Slowly her heart began to slow, no longer deafening, and the sweat dried on her skin.

Glancing longingly at the rumpled sheets, Christine's hand raised in involuntary supplication. She desperately needed to rest, her bones ached with the desire to sleep but her understanding had evolved beyond that and she knew she would get no more this night.

The jug on the washstand offered a paltry measure of tepid water, which she splashed sparingly over her face and neck, using the last drops to soothe her dry lips and throat. It helped. Anything that drew her further from her dreams was a fleeting boon.

Following a pattern ingrained on her body and soul from frequent repetition, the singer dressed, her simple soft woollen garment falling in hugging folds that warmed away any lingering chill. After adding a cloak with a deep satin-lined hood, she lit a candle, opened the door to her room and took to the stairs, treading lightly on creaking boards all the way to the roof.

***

If Darla didn't show up tonight he was leaving. Damn prophecy, the Council, Lily, the Master and anyone else who insisted on messing with his existence.

Angelus paced restlessly around the small cellar trying to work off his excess energy, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand. Periodically he would stop, take a swig and glance towards the house opposite. Three weeks of watching and so far not a sign of anything remotely like a baby. He hadn't been able to swing by and speak to Spike for nigh on a week. Nor had he had any visitors for the last two days.

He was starting to go mad.

This morning he'd ended up playing cards with the butler.

And the butler won.

A movement across the street caught his attention and he hurried to the window, careful to avoid the stray shaft of sunlight that filtered through the dirt. Several figures stood huddled together, recently disgorged from a landau that pulled away down the street. As he watched, one of them broke away, went up to the Watcher's house and knocked on the door. It opened quickly and a man stepped outside, glancing nervously up and down the deserted road.

"Watcher," Angelus growled, his fingers curling into the window frame, he'd recognise that uptight posture anywhere.

The group of humans splintered. There were five of them, not including the one who had now disappeared inside. Four men, definitely. The smallest of them could be a woman; there was no way of telling until she moved.

And then she did, swinging her cloak wide to accommodate her skirts as she strode up to the house. Angelus found himself glued to the window. The woman moved with a power and grace to rival Darla's and radiated a kind of sexual energy he had never seen before. There was only one possible explanation as to what she could be. The Slayer.

***

Delicate strings of song and the co-ordinated drum of dancing feet pulled him gradually up through the numerous levels of the vast building. It was the only sound Spike had heard since the candle finally died, leaving him wandering helplessly through a living hell, and he gravitated towards it, powerless to resist the promise of blood.

Following Christine's elusive scent deep underground, he'd become woefully lost in both time and space, though the hunger thrumming in his veins suggested it had been several days.

Even now the distorting effects of the labyrinthine passageways misled him continuously, casting phantom echoes that lured him into blind stairwells and long forgotten chambers. He roamed through them disorientated, senses rendered mute by the pungent damp that permeated the air, coating the world in the earthy hues of stagnant rot. The only company lay in his memories, most vividly of Angelus' brief visits and the ways they'd found to pass the time after business was concluded. There were moments when even those felt unreal and he fingered the badly healed bite marks on his neck constantly to reassure himself of his sanity.

Eventually the walls under his right hand turned from rough damp brick to slimy algae covered wood and thence to tinder dry lathes. The sounds came more frequently; music interspersed with snippets of conversation that seemed to flee from his questing ears when he ventured too close.

Hovering on the verge of abandoning stealth, Spike was ready to punch his way back into the world when a ribbon of light blazed through the shadows, a beacon in the darkness, and the scent of humanity once again swelled through his senses. He paused, focusing intently on what lay beyond the wall. One human, a young male, his heartbeat strong and the smell of honest sweat lingering about him. The perfect meal for a half-starved demon.

The hidden door swivelled silently under his hand and he stepped through it, peering into the dimly lit rehearsal room where he and Angelus had originally hashed out their plans. In the corner standing with his back to the mirrors, a towel slung around his neck stood a young man. Collar length dark-hair formed loose curls against his olive skin and drops of moisture ran enticingly down his sculptured back. The heat radiating from him was astounding and Spike's fangs itched in temptation. With seductive ease the vampire approached, feet silent on the dusty wooden boards.

Oblivious to his peril, the dancer continued his warm down exercises, stretching muscles he spent hours driving to perfection. He bent, catching his ankles, easing the strain on his back and dropping his forehead onto his shins. And then froze. Through his legs he could see another pair of feet.

"Blin!" The expletive exploded from the young man's lips and he spun round to confront the figure leaning casually against the wall watching him. "Your pardon. I didn't see you there." When the pale man failed to respond, he added, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I reckon you can. Got this little problem."

"P-problem?" There was something about the way the visitor was staring at him. Something predatory about the way he stood, the way he stretched, the way he walked, the way he.

"Goes something like this." Cold hands fastened around his shoulders, spinning him in the man's arms until his back was pressed against the other's chest and a voice whispered in his ear. "I need a snack and you look right tasty. What d'ya say? We gotta deal?"

Death had never tasted so sweet, a proverbial feast after a famine and, as the mortal's heart faltered to a stop, Spike withdrew his fangs, oblivious of the blood dripping on his shirt and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

That was unequivocally the last time he went exploring without supplies.

Hunger temporarily sated, he hefted the corpse over his shoulder and dumped it several feet inside the passageway, making sure to leave the door wide open while he did so. No way in hell did he plan on getting lost down there again. Unfortunately that meant having to go through the public parts of the opera house to get back outside.

He glanced down at the drying blood marking the front of his filthy shirt and his ripped trousers covered in mud and dust and then back at the body, doing a quick tally of his options.

This was going to be a problem.

The state of his clothes would definitely attract unwanted attention; in fact he'd be lucky to make it without someone noticing him. Maybe? He turned the body over with his foot. No, the trousers would have to do because there was no way in hell he was wearing those poncy things. Not to mention it smelled like the chap had pissed himself. Perhaps his shirt would fit?

A quick hunt around proved that the dancer must have been shirtless when he entered the practice room, so Spike artfully arranged the discarded towel around his neck to cover the blood stains and opened the door. The corridor was empty but the crowded sounds of everyday life at the theatre resounded up from the lower floors. Cautiously he headed towards the noise, dodging into doorways every time someone passed by in the hopes that they'd turn out to be wearing clothes he could nick. Unfortunately, unless tutus had suddenly become de rigueur for gentlemen, the numerous female dancers were worse than useless.

After an hour of sneaking and hiding Spike gave up. It obviously wasn't his night and there were easier ways of dealing with the problem. At the next staircase he headed up, rather than down, aiming for the roof and a way to escape his erstwhile prison.

***

"Darla!" Angelus bellowed, slamming the front door behind him and thundering up the stairs to her suite. The sitting room door opening brought him to a skidding halt and he spun round to see his sire standing in the hallway, arms crossed and looking more that slightly annoyed. "Thank Christ," he began, "You're here. I feared you might already have."

"For your sake I hope you have an extremely good reason for being here." Darla's foot tapped out a harassed rhythm and her eyes gleamed icy with temper. Drusilla hovered in the doorway behind her, clothing slightly dishevelled and with swollen lips. "I was under the impression that I told you to watch the house day and."

"No time," he interrupted, storming past them and grabbing a piece of paper from the writing desk. He scrawled something on it and thrust it at Drusilla, saying urgently, "Go there. They're waiting for you. And don't do anything except watch the house across the street. Anything! You understand?"

Dru took the note and vacillated for a moment, her mouth opening and closing.

"Go! Now!" Angelus snarled, pushing her towards the door, not interested in hearing what nonsense she might spout.

The second it closed behind her Darla started in again, her voice tinged with concern. She hadn't seen her lover this bothered for years. "What the hell is going on, Angelus?"

"The Slayer." His comment was met by stunned silence so he tried again. "They've brought the Slayer to Paris. She arrived at the Watcher's house before dusk." There was still no reaction. Angelus grabbed Darla's arms and shook her, hard. "The Slayer, Darla! Guarding this damned baby!"

Releasing her with a violent backwards shove, Angelus paced away waving his hands as he fumed, "What now? Do you want us to take her on as well as the Watchers? As well as your Sire? For god's sake, woman, how many enemies do you plan on making trying to pull off this feat? It was bad enough when it just that idiot Luke."

Something in what he said jerked Darla out of her shock and she snapped, "Well panicking certainly won't achieve anything."

"Panicking? Panicking!" Angelus strode towards her his eyes flashing at the insult. "I don't think pointing out how."

"Where's Spike?"

Her question brought him up short. "What?"

"Whatever it was you sent him to do, he's not been seen for five days and."

"I told you, Will's doing a job for me. It's not important right now."

"It is if the Slayer is in town. You know how foolhardy he can be and the last thing we need is to attract further attention."

"He won't." Angelus waved away her concern, remembering the strict instructions he had given Spike before they parted. And the threats he had used to back them up. "I think I can safely say that there is no chance of him attracting attention."

***

"Two of your men, you say?" Mercier spun a pen through his fingers as he listened to Renan, the new, more senior, police officer who had been placed in charge of the case.

"Yes, monsieur. Commisaire Mifroid and Constable Sainclair. Their bodies were found crammed into a sewer off the Boulevard des Capucines. They had been dead several days and just like the earlier victims their throats were mauled," Renan paused, "amongst other things."

"Other things?" the opera house manager asked reluctantly, remembering the mutilated corpse of the singing master.

"Constable Sainclair. He. It. Let's just say it wasn't an easy way to die."

Relieved that the gendarme didn't feel the need to go into details but still disturbed by the implications, Mercier rose from his desk went over to his sideboard and poured two large brandies. "I realise that drinking whilst on duty." he began, offering it over.

Renan took the drink with a smile. "Thank you, monsieur. You are a true patriot."

Rather than return to his seat, the manager continued to stand, shifting the bottles and glasses around and looking increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually words like racehorses burst from his lips, straining to reach the finish line.

"There have been rumours. About what is committing the murders. Some say it's vampires, which is impossible. And there are strangers in the city - Englishmen - who say they know how to fight them."

In the distance the evening performance began and the sounds of the overture rose to a crescendo, adding to the tense silence in the room. Finally Renan's glass clunked onto the desk and, he muttered, "Merde," under his breath. He'd try this once but if the manager didn't believe him he was damn well telling him the truth, whatever the cost.

Taking a fortifying breath, the policeman leaned back in his chair and said confidently, "Well, as a better man than myself once said the English are all `poltroons, cowards, sulkers and dastards'. I wouldn't believe the rumours if I were you."

"Then you still think it is some sort of animal?" Mercier's face held a kind of deluded hope and Renan's heart went out to him. It was difficult enough keeping a business such as this afloat without rumours of the supernatural haunting your establishment. And if the man was willing to hide from the truth far be it from this policeman to drag it out into the open.

"That is exactly what we think. Whoever put the note into the singing teacher's mouth was playing a sick joke. The fact that the rest of the corpses were hidden suggests we are dealing with a kind of big cat, perhaps a leopard escaped from a private menagerie."

"Mon dieu! I knew it was ridiculous but, you know, sometimes it is hard not to believe."

"Monsieur Mercier! Monsieur Mercier!"

Both men's heads turned towards the door being flung open by a terrified stagehand. "Monsieur Mercier! Please, come quickly. It's Alexei! He's. he's been murdered."

"Alexei?"

"Alexei Kisselev." Mercier explained to the confused gendarme as the pair ran after their guide. "A premier le danseur visiting from Russia. We were hoping he would attract a new audience, there are so few male dancers these days."

The group of distraught dancers gathered in the rehearsal room left no doubt that the `ghost' was responsible for this death as well. Amongst the tears and fits of the vapours, it was the only coherent word to be heard. "The ghost. He has struck again."

As the policeman and the manager pressed forward the dancers moved aside, revealing a dark opening in the wall where one of the floor length mirrors should have been.

"He's in there." The stagehand whispered, pointing towards it. "No one had seen him since after the performance last night, so Meg came to find him and saw blood on the floor. And then the open mirror."

"Well," Renan declared, stepping into the hidden passageway and looking around him curiously. "I think we've discovered how this `ghost' finds his way around."

***

The roof had been a great idea; in fact Spike wished he'd thought of it before. It would certainly have been a more comfortable vantage-point than the cafes and shops he'd been lurking in to date, and head and shoulders better than those bloody corridors and tunnels he'd gotten lost in. The ornate architecture provided plenty of holes and corners to shelter from the sun and after dusk he could move around with impunity keeping watch on the crowds that flooded the building. The only downside was the lack of food but then he hadn't exactly been eating well before and at least here it was only a short trip to go hunting. As he had proven last night when he took advantage of the throng to get a meal and a clean set of clothes.

Invisible behind one of the fantastical angels gracing the front of the building, Spike hugged the bronze leeching up what remained of the sun's warmth and watched the first of the opera goers arriving for the evening's performance. It was unlikely that Christine would be out until the show was over, so for now he could afford to relax a little and take in the sights and smells of the Paris evening.

Therefore he was somewhat surprised to hear footsteps on the roof, and even more so when he turned to see the intruder was none other than the woman he was seeking. She sang quietly to herself as she approached the edge of the building, her cloak billowing around her in the breeze, its deep hood a scarlet pocket on her back. The thin white material of her costume clung to her legs, clasping them in a desperate lover's embrace as she walked. Her hair streamed behind her, a white pennant against the darkening sky. Skin as pale as any vampire's, soft milky and smooth, perfection in itself. She was as William had always imagined Ophelia to be, beautiful in her madness and suicidal in her love.

With a great effort of will Spike bit his tongue hard, the sharp pain and sudden flush of blood in his mouth breaking the spell the singer was unwittingly casting around herself. And when he was seeing clearly again, he noticed that she was shivering and unattractive goose bumps raised her skin. Tears streaked her face and her nose was red from crying. Not quite the ethereal beauty that had him mesmerised moments before.

At the parapet she stopped and her lips started to move. Spike slunk in closer, wanting to grab her but loath to do so when she was so close to the edge. One wrong move could see her plummet to her death and that was far too quick. The singer continued to stare up at the sky, her lips forming words Spike could finally hear and understand, tears again running down her face.

"We turn to you for protection, holy Mother of God. Listen to our prayers and help us in our needs. Save us from every danger, glorious and blessed Virgin."

She was praying, her voice choked and tight and, as she reached the end of the formal plea, Christine broke down completely, sobbing out her story to the unfeeling night.

"He has killed again and it must be my fault. I don't know what to do. He said he was an angel. The angel of music sent to watch over me but now my dreams are full of horror and death. The fear he promised to free me from stalks my nightmares and his face haunts my days. I am held prisoner by my own pride and yet too scared to deny him."

As he listened to her confession Spike suddenly understood exactly how to get the singer to go with him. A method that was infinitely more satisfying that knocking her over the head. He stepped forward and cleared his throat. She started, frightened by the sudden noise, and spun, catching her foot and stumbling, hands clutching at nothingness. In a blur of movement Spike grabbed her, yanking her back from the edge and into his arms, where she rested shaking against him, heart beating wildly in her throat.

"I'm terribly sorry about that. I didn't mean to frighten you."

Christine looked up into the dark eyes of the man who had rescued her. They were blue; she was sure but couldn't remember how she knew. And that voice. The accented French he was speaking.

"Have we met?"

The man released her and stepped back, putting a more appropriate distance between them. Clearing his throat he said, "Yes, actually, I'm the."

"Vicomte de Chagny. I remember. You came to my dressing room with your brother and then, and then." The rest of the encounter was a void in her mind. Like so much of her life, a gaping maw filled with yellow hypnotic eyes and music. "I'm sorry," she said dropping her head, flustered by her inability to recollect their introduction. "I haven't been well. There are things."

"The angel of music?" The Vicomte asked quietly, dipping down to look at her face. "I couldn't help overhearing. Would you mind if I asked are you in some kind of difficulty? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Christine looked at him in mute desperation. He sounded so kind, so gentle. Could she trust him to help her?

"Please," he added, a concerned smile curving his lips. "I only wish to help."

Won over by the Vicomte's regard, Christine relaxed a little. "You won't believe me," she started, "I hardly believe it myself."

"Try me," he said holding out a hand and guiding her to the edge of one of the huge water tanks where they could sit and talk. "You'd be amazed the things I have seen in my travels."

With her new friend's gentle support, the singer found herself opening up and sharing the entire story of the angel of music. How he had come to her and said she could be a great singer. How she had accepted the offer only to be drawn into a world of darkness and fear, where her dreams had been turned against her. She no longer remembered performing, in fact if she sang more than a few bars her awareness faded away until nothing but the music and his eyes remained. He followed her constantly, watching her, never alone. And sometimes things happened, and she would wake up with blood in her mouth.

"And then there is this," she finished, removing the choker from around her neck to reveal the puncture wounds in her throat. The Vicomte's expression darkened and he reached out a hand, letting it hover above her skin. Just as she was certain he would deny her, he tugged his own collar aside displaying scars of his own.

"Like I said, my dear, I have seen much during my travels and experienced more."

Christine's hand reached out towards his neck and then flew to her mouth. "I don't know what it is. I don't remember it happening. But I think it is the same thing that killed all those people and I'm so scared that someone will see it and think that I had something to do with it and."

The enormity of the whole business hit her in a way it never had before. Somehow sharing her experiences with another person made them real, so real she could no longer hold herself together. Tearing sobs escaped her chest and she flung herself into the Vicomte's arms. "Help me, monsieur. Please, you must help me!"

Fingers brushed through her hair and he whispered in her ear, "I will my sweet. Come with me and the Comte. We will make everything better."

Part Six

Erik raced silently up the stairs to the roof, furious with himself for having lost Christine. He'd only left her alone for a few minutes to orchestrate and monitor the discovery of the dancer's body and the secret passageways, and when he returned she had gone from her dressing room. He tracked her scent to the door but paused before he burst through, brought up short by the sound of two voices deep in conversation.

The woman's was certainly Christine's; he would recognise it anywhere, speaking or singing. The other was male and vaguely familiar.

Cautiously Erik cracked open the door and peered out onto the roof. Christine was sitting at the base of a statue talking, though the position of her body prevented him from seeing to whom. His feet made no sound as he stepped onto the zinc and lead, taking the circuitous route around the central dome in order to discover the identity of Christine's new champion. And when he saw who it was he was extremely glad he had.

Far from the human suitor he expected to find, the person sitting next to Christine and holding her hand was the young fledgling of Angelus'. The one he had lured deep into the bowels of the opera house and then abandoned to starve; the one that, unlike him, had been rescued from the pot and, given the renewed perfection of his appearance, gifted blood to heal.

Erik ran his skeletal fingers through the few strands of hair still clinging to his skull and down his face, tracing the edges of bone that would now never be covered in flesh, the remains of his nose, nothing more than a lappet of empty skin. His mind flashed back to those first few agonising days after he'd been turned out of Joshua's lair at Angelus' order and left to dust, or not, on the streets. The luck in finding a dead cat, which had given him the strength to get out of the sun. And the taste of rats and pigeons which had fed him in the long days that followed, never enough to replace the meat that had been boiled from his bones.

It had taken weeks before he was ready to pursue Angelus, first to Jersey and now to Paris and hours of thought had gone into his plans for revenge. It was a work of genius, a grand opera in and of itself, simple, yet beautiful, a harmony of thought and motion like all the greatest works were.

Act one: the hero woos the heroine and she comes willing to his side.

Act two: the villain falls in love with the heroine and attempts to spirit her away.

Act three: the hero recruits help from an unlikely quarter to win back her love.

Act four: the villain is defeated during a bloody battle, the hero is grievously injured but saved from certain death by the selfless sacrifice of the champion who aids him.

Act five: Finale. The hero and heroine fall into each others arms.

To those of a less artistic bent that meant enthralling Christine and using her to seduce Angelus into the opera house where he could be trapped in the labyrinth of tunnels. It meant getting the Slayer to Paris by way of murder and threatening letters, and entrapping her in that same set of passageways. And, in a final twist, entering the battlefield himself to bring the two antagonists together, thus ensuring their mutual destruction.

And now his pivotal piece was being seduced away by his nemesis' get, a creature that should rightly be dust.

Totally unacceptable.

But there was nothing Erik could do. One glance showed that the other vampire was in the peak of condition, whereas Erik still carried extensive damage that had never healed. A fight would only have one winner and, even with superior speed, it wouldn't be him.

With mounting desperation he crept closer to the couple, staying low and snake-quiet against the roof.

"Help me, monsieur. Please, you must help me!" Christine was sobbing.

And then he heard the magic words. The ones Erik knew would give him eyes inside Angelus' lair and allow him to direct the Slayer straight to his door.

"I will my sweet. Come with me and the Comte and I will make everything better."

***

Christine huddled into the leather-padded side of the carriage, too distraught to take anything but a perfunctory interest in her surroundings. The Vicomte had insisted she come with him immediately, not even stopping to pick up her few belongings from her room, rightly stating that the ghost could come for her at any moment and remaining in the opera house any longer than absolutely necessary was foolish in the extreme. So here she was. Alone with a man she hardly knew, travelling across Paris to his house and his brother.

"We are here, my dear."

The hand patting her knee gently brought Christine back to herself and she looked around blearily. The speed of their arrival surprised her. If pressed she would have said that the Comte probably kept a small chateau on the outskirts of the city but they seemed to be somewhere in central Paris, possibly the Rue de Rivoli.

Tiredly she allowed the Vicomte to help her down and walked silently behind him as he lead the way into a modest but well-appointed apartment.

"Angelus!" Her escort called, his voice echoing harshly against the hallway's high ceiling. "You home? I've got."

"The master and mistress are out. They left a message for you."

A maid appeared suddenly on the stairs, her dark skirts visible while her upper body remained shadowed by the wall, and the Vicomte immediately hurried up to her. Christine watched their interaction disinterestedly, her arms tugging her cloak tightly around her. The apartment was cold and dark, the air smelled musty and damp, it felt dead. She shook her head, it must be her imagination and it made more sense to concern herself with how soon she would be fed and shown a place to sleep than intangibles like décor and atmosphere.

"I'm so sorry, my dear." The Vicomte returned to her side and started to guide her towards the door. "Angelus. My brother. has business elsewhere at the moment and needs me to run an errand for him."

Christine hesitated. He wanted her to go with him? "I could stay here," she suggested hopefully. "The maid would keep me company and I wouldn't mind."

An eerie laugh came from the stairs and the Vicomte glanced towards it, a trick of the light turning his eyes golden for a moment. "No. I don't think that would be a good idea." Then he turned back to her, his expression conciliatory and tone persuasive. "I realise you are tired and hungry but really I have to do this. Please, I will ensure that anything you require is provided."

The maid's laughter sent fear zinging to Christine's stomach and she allowed herself to be talked around, wanting nothing more than to leave this place with its shadows and unspoken secrets.

As the landau containing Spike and Christine pulled away, a brougham with its curtains drawn tightly appeared at the head of the street. Erik dismissed it, readying himself to follow the fledgling, until it stopped outside the same apartment block and Angelus got out, followed quickly by two other figures. The second had to be Darla, the descriptions Erik had heard over the years left no room for doubt. The other he did not recognise. It was swathed in cloth from head to toe and moved oddly, tottering as though its legs were too weak to take its weight.

Now what, Erik mused. Should he follow the singer or remain at the lair and spy on Angelus? He should go after Christine; she was, after all, his means of subduing Angelus and bringing him to heel. There was precious little point in knowing where his enemy was hiding if he still couldn't destroy him.

That decided Erik raced across the rooftops in the direction the carriage had been heading, only to find the streets empty of his quarry. Frustrated he continued to hunt, losing further precious minutes backtracking in case they had stopped somewhere close by. All to no avail, it was as though the landau had vanished off the face of the earth.

Downcast by his failure to find her, Erik had no choice but to return to Angelus' lair. All he could do was hope that Christine returned at some point in the future.

***

"Dru, love. Open the bloody door." Spike kicked it disconsolately, trying not to jar the woman he carried in his arms. Christine had fallen asleep in the carriage and rather than wake her and answer the awkward questions that were bound to follow, he'd decided to let her sleep.

The scullery door cracked open and Drusilla peered out, her mouth curling into a big smile when she saw whom it was. "My Spike! You brought me dinner." Or possibly what he was carrying.

"No Dru, not dinner. A prezzie for Angelus," Spike replied and then frowned at her mouth. "Is that blood?" he asked worriedly. "Tell me you haven't eaten the butler!" If she had there would be no one left to invite him in and this whole farce would be over before it began.

"Only tasted," she said wistfully, "of wine and truffles. My little truffle pig."

Spike blinked in confusion and then shook his head. "Get him to invite me in then, pet."

Dru stared at him for a moment and then smiled brightly. "All right."

The door closed in his face and he dropped his head forward and banged it gently on the wood. He loved her, he really did, but god, sometimes he could bloody kill her.

The minutes passed and still there was nothing.

Spike tried again. "Dru," he called, keeping his voice low enough not to disturb the neighbours. "Dru, love, I'm still here."

It opened again. "I know you are, silly, and I'm in here."

That was it. The time for playing nice was over. "Get the fucking butler Drusilla. I want to come in."

"This butler," she asked stepping back so Spike could see past her into the kitchen. There, tied to a chair, face pale and neck covered in blood, was a human, his greying head lolled to one side.

"Christ almighty! I told you not to kill him!"

Dru looked panicked for a moment. "He's not. Honest. I never killed him. But I got bored and he tasted so sweet and."

It was then that Spike realised the bloke's trousers were undone and the air was heavy with the scent of sex. "You shagged him?!" he interjected, voice rising to a shout.

Christine stirred in his arms and opened her eyes, starting awake when she realised her unseemly position. "Oh. I." she mumbled, squirming until she was placed on the ground. Once safely on her own two feet again she looked around herself curiously, taking in the dark haired woman at the door and the man tied to the chair. How very odd. "Is everything all right?"

"Umm. I wonder if you could do something for me," the Vicomte started. "There has been a small difficulty and this gentleman has been hurt. Could you possibly help him? It is rather important I'm afraid."

"Yes, come in dearie and help me make the nice piggy feel better," the woman said, her voice carrying an even stranger accent than the Vicomte's.

"Dru. I'm warning you, leave her alone." Christine flinched at the tone in the Vicomte's voice, never had he sounded so cold and threatening. She glanced from one to the other and then ducked inside, not wanting to get involved in whatever business there was between them.

The man, a butler by his dress, or what remained of it, was unconscious but still alive. Hurriedly, Christine searched the kitchen soon locating a bottle of smelling salts, which she waved under the man's nose.

He came to with a cough, his gaze snapping to hers, eyes desperate and clear. "Thank - thank god," he cried. "I've been saved."

"Invite me in, mate, and I'll try to make that permanent."

The lazy drawl from the doorway made Christine spin on her heel and her scream rang through the house. Gone were the guileless blue eyes, defined cheekbones and soft mouth that had kept her sane this evening and in their place skulked wolf's amber, harsh ridged flesh, and jagged fangs. It was a familiar face, the face of her tormentor, the face of the ghost.

Another scream tore from her throat and she passed out.

***

"Is there anything else you require, grandmother?" Darla asked, kneeling to carefully hand the ancient sorcerer a porcelain bowl of steaming green tea. She kept her eyes lowered allowing her to glimpse the tiny white-socked feet peeping out from under the hem of a midnight blue cheong-sam. When her offer was declined, she bowed respectfully and remained knelt at her visitor's feet, forcing herself to ignore Angelus who was lounging in his chair, his legs draped in mute insolence over the arm. It was all pretence and bravado and Darla understood that well; Angelus was as nervous about having Li Hua in their lair as she was.

"Sit with me granddaughter." A wizened hand caressed Darla's hair and she raised her head to meet pale colourless eyes buried by tissue fine wrinkled skin. Li Hua smiled, revealing blackened teeth ground down to nubs from years of grinding magical herbs, and continued mischievously, "In these modern times we have no need to stand on such ceremony."

Angelus guffawed loudly and slapped his leg, leaning forward in his chair to comment, "Well said, old woman. It's about time someone told my girl the truth."

Rising to her feet Darla shot daggers at him and ground her teeth at his smug expression.

A moment later it was wiped from his face when the sorcerer spoke again, "And you, my young tiger, should learn some respect for your elders or perhaps I should teach you." She waved her hand, muttering a few words under her breath and Angelus suddenly found himself on the carpet kow-towing before her, his forehead knocking repetitively on the floor.

It was Darla's turn to smirk and she did, with great enthusiasm at her lover's discomfort, before retiring to the couch. The two women sat together watching in silence for a while until the sorcerer nodded her head in satisfaction and with a single gesture released Angelus from her spell. He immediately clambered to his feet, demon face to the fore, enraged at having been placed in such a subordinate position.

Li Hua met his gaze unperturbed by the rage she saw there and before the vampire had a chance to attack pointed out quietly, "You saw how easily I was able to control you. Do you really wish to challenge me again?"

The question hung between them like the sword of Damocles threatening to bring the world down around their ears. Finally, and with a low unhappy growl, Angelus ducked his head and stepped back conceding defeat.

Li Hua nodded again and said, "That is better. Now let us turn to the matter in hand. You have a problem that requires my assistance, I presume of the magical nature."

Darla shifted uncomfortably in her seat and then turned to the sorcerer an appealing expression on her face. "Not so much magical as political. We need to gain possession of something and it is vital my sire hears nothing about it."

From outside the window Erik eavesdropped with stunned incredulity as the story unfolded within. This was Darla, forever the Master's favourite, and Angelus, the one held up as an example of what a vampire should truly be, and they were plotting against the Order. It was unthinkable. If the Master found out they would be disowned, pursued to the ends of the earth and then dragged back to stand in chains before him. It was. It was. So much better than any revenge he could have plotted for himself.

Determined to hear more Erik pressed closer. The sorcerer was saying, "And you are certain that this is the child?"

"Its ancestry definitely fits the description of the one mentioned in the prophecy and, grandmother, it is not as if I wish the Master harm through my actions. It is simply that he could never understand how hard it would be for me to give up my life above ground."

"Oh my goodness, I completely understand your reasons and do not seek to judge you, I simply wished to clarify the situation. As you know much of my work involves prophecies and they have a habit of coming true however hard people work to avoid them. Sometimes in the strangest of ways. Tell me, did your sire ever recite the prophecy in its totality?"

Darla shook her head. "No. But I do know that it is contained in a codex to the Writings of Aurelius that were missing for centuries."

"The Pharnos Codex?"

"The Master didn't see fit to tell me."

"The babe you seek, was it the offspring of the death flower and the corrupted prince?"

"That is what he called them, yes."

"Then it was the Pharnos Codex. And that, my children, could prove to be a problem."

For the first time since their declared truce, Angelus spoke his voice cold and confident. "I haven't met a problem yet that didn't respond to the right `persuasion'."

"Which is why you need my help. It has long been held that the Pharnos Codex was removed from the Writings of Aurelius because they contained knowledge that came directly from the fates and challenging them is simply courting disaster. Your sire appears to be trying to do this and will bring tragedy to himself and all of his kindred in doing so."

"Much as I appreciate the lecture, what the hell does that mean?" Angelus was on his feet now, the long hours of frustrated inactivity since discovering the Slayer finally taking their toll. "Do we try for the brat or not? Will we end up being caught in the backlash if we do? If we don't?"

Li Hua waited for him to run out of steam and then said quietly, "What it means is that, yes, I am willing to help you. Though not for the reasons you think. If this were merely a matter of Darla's preferences I would have to say no, but with the Master trying to manipulate the prophecy it is permitted for us to try also. However I cannot promise you that there will be no price, there is always a price to be paid when one indulges in magics."

"Is there anything you need us to do, grandmother?"

"Allow me to stay in your lair until I have word the child is born, and then I will ensure it is brought safely into your hands. Apart from that, for the moment, nothing."

***

God, he'd missed her. In the whirlwind of fucking that was Angelus and Darla, making love to Dru like this was the eye of the hurricane, that moment of peace surrounded by tumultuous potentialities. She made him feel alive, made him feel like the man he could have been if that ponce William had had the courage to grasp his life and live it instead of simpering pathetically in the corner.

Her mouth blossomed under gentle pressure opening to let him in, giving all that was her up to him to taste and savour. Her tongue caressed without battling, hands stroked without bruising, body gave without taking. She was his goddess.

"My Spike!"

Kaleidoscope eyes, whirling rainbow dreams staring up at him and she gasped out his name as he thrust into her, long and slow. Limpet legs curling around his waist, their pelvises rocking the cradle. Dru turned her head, unruly hair spreading dark tendrils across the white sheet, exposing her neck for him to worship with open-mouthed kisses that became torturous nips of desire.

Supporting his weight on one arm Spike dipped down to capture her breast, licking and sucking until the aureole scrunched tight with arousal and traced nonsense syllables on the soft pillow-like skin with his fingers. He kept the pace languid, teasing her with the depth and anticipated rhythm of his penetration as her sweet cunny gripped and grasped at his cock, tugging his sensitive flesh and making him whisper her name over and over.

"Christ, Dru. Missed you so much, love. My princess, my bounteous midnight queen."

Her heels dug into his back, urging him on and he complied, rotating his hips as he thrust and rubbing against her clit. She arched against him, her fingers winding into his hair pressing him unmercifully tighter to her breast, grinding her pelvis down and down, her body inhaling him until both were pulled to stretched tautness. Then, like the metaphorical breaking wave, she spilled over, catching and tossing him in her wake, dragging him drowning in her undertow. Helplessly he plundered her trembling body, plunging artlessly and unseeing, driven to mute exhalations by her breathless screams of pleasure. And, as he quaked through his own release, Dru held him firm, wordlessly accepting his absurd invocations of love and adoration, not even blinking when he chanted `sire, sire' against her neck.