Spike was not amused.

He had gotten singed while racing from the De Soto to the door of the roach-infested motel at dawn. In his arms, the Guardian hardly slowed him down. Then he had been sorely tempted to disembowel the oily little weasel behind the counter with a toothpick when the wanker had insisted that he only had a double room left. But Spike couldn't follow through on the nice, gory mental pictures because he couldn't harm humans.

Although the humanity of the condescending bastard was highly debatable. In his opinion.

Okay, so he would never have to argue his case in front of the soddin' Supreme Court, but he WOULD have to answer to the Guardian, and no pillock was worth that much trouble.

Not that her Ladyship was in any position to play high and mighty with him right then. She hadn't regained consciousness since they had left Sunnydale and that worried Spike. He didn't remember much about human physiology - let alone Guardian physiology for that matter - but he could tell that her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy and her pulse erratic. From his admittedly limited personal experience, none of those things were good.

He quickly paid the obnoxious clerk - flashing the Guardian's AMEX at him like it was a crucifix and the motel employee a vamp - ignoring his suspicious glare when he grabbed the room key with one hand, still holding the Guardian with the other.

"She on drugs?"

Spike lost it. He allowed his game face to flicker on and off for a second, then grinned hungrily, leaning over the counter. "Sod. Off."

The wanker did the smart thing and fainted.

Spike sighed. Dinner was laying down unconscious at his feet - it wasn't even Christmas - and he couldn't take advantage of the free buffet because he had a Guardian to attend to.

And some people thought their life was unfair.

 

 

Morghane was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming.

And remembering.

She knew that too.

Dusk, and she was leaving the mansion. When she had stopped by L.A. the previous day, Doyle had told her it was still unoccupied.

Angel would have been surprised to see her after so long. Maybe glad. But uncomfortable. She had thought twice about visiting. It would awaken old, disturbing memories for both of them.

She didn't care much about stirring her own emotions. It wasn't like she didn't have any experience in trampling all over them with careless disregard. Angel, however, was another story. She had known him, in some way, for a century and she could tell that it would take some time still before he would maintain eye-contact with her for more than a minute without bolting.

But she couldn't help it. She had to see for herself that he was okay. She knew through Doyle, and occasionally Whistler, that he was making a life for himself away from the Slayer. Yet their reports weren't enough. She needed more.

When Doyle had called Whistler to tell him about the Gem, and then Whistler had called her, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. She couldn't possibly stay away. She intended to visit for a day or two, just long enough to assess the damage Spike had caused. Hopefully long enough to try and convince herself for the thousandth time that she had made the right decision four years ago. That she had indeed helped to alleviate some of Angel's suffering, not added to it. She needed to ask him the question; if he could erase that time, the love and the heartache, would he do it? Did he hate her for sending him to the Slayer? Despise her?

The others would &endash; if they ever learned the truth. The Watcher, the boy, the little witch. The Slayer's mother. She didn't know about the Slayer herself, although she could hazard a guess. Buffy loved Angel and that was that. Doubts, certainly. Pain, of course. But not regret.

Anyway. In and out of L.A. in a couple of days, that had been the plan. Except that it hadn't unfolded quite that way.

She stopped by Angel's office an hour before nightfall. Cordelia wasn't there but Doyle welcomed her. Ten minutes into the conversation and the half-demon collapsed in pain.

A vision.

Sunnydale. A warlock. Big trouble.

As soon as he mentioned magick, she knew it was a job for her. No coincidence that. She made him swear on Cordelia's life not to tell Angel that she had been here or where she was going, and then off to the Hellmouth. She could always stop by L.A. again once she was done.

She decided against getting in touch with either Watcher or Slayer. She never supported the Council in their view that a Slayer's duty should include protecting the Guardian. Morghane had been quite capable of taking care of herself since she turned thirty, thank you very much. Each Guardian was an accomplished mage even before the Rapture - the spell which turned a mage into the Guardian.

Morghane thought it was a pretty apt denomination. The experience defied description, the amount of power embraced was purely staggering. Wrapping an essentially human mind around it took training, energy and time. Harnessing the magick required a few years during which the new Guardian was vulnerable and could do with the Slayer's support.

Morghane had mastered the magick a long time ago. She had no need for a Slayer's assistance. When you compared the Guardian's life expectancy with the Slayer's, it seemed obvious who needed whom there. Yet Morghane knew that the retarded, narrow-minded bastards who ran the Council didn't see it her way, so she had voluntarily isolated herself from the Slayers, keeping the secret of her existence from them. She never intervened unless the situation was desperate, granted that she was not busy fighting her own battles. And even then, she would always explore her other options first.

Hence the choice she had made four years ago. The decision she knew Rupert Giles would hold against her to his grave if he ever learned of it, and she couldn't say she blamed him.

Yet another reason why she had not contacted the Slayer once in Sunnydale.

Which explained why she had been walking alone towards the graveyard featured in Doyle's vision, in search of a powerful warlock who, from what the half-demon could tell, had no business being on the Hellmouth.

 

 

There was at least fifty of them waiting for her in Redfield's cemetery. That she could see anyway.

Vampires, big. Skilled fighters.

She wasn't completely helpless in that area. She didn't have the Slayer's innate abilities and strength, but that didn't mean she didn't know how to handle herself in a fight. And although she was much more comfortable wielding spells, in her 1700 years she had learned to resort to street-fighting when needed.

She put up a good fight, but they were so many. She fried half of them with a single command, but the reinforcements kept on coming. It didn't look good. She was starting to rethink this no-Slayer-protection business. She had magick working for her, but she was still human, and soon she was tiring. She killed thirty, maybe more. She couldn't keep count. Their number was overwhelming. Someone had premeditated this, someone who could afford to send an army of experienced vampires against her, knowing that most would become so much cannon-fodder.

Suddenly her back was against a wall and she went down. They restrained her quickly and she struggled, summoning a stake, fire, lightning, but each time she destroyed one, another took its place. She couldn't see for the dust in her eyes.

And then pain.

Pain so blinding she thought her spell had backfired and she had been staked and burned and struck by lightning all at once.

Agony so intense she thought her skin had turned inside-out.

When she opened her eyes again a hooded figure hovered over her, chanting. She couldn't make out the words for the roaring in her ears. Then she realized that the vampires stood around her in a circle, they didn?t hold her down anymore.

When she lifted her head, she understood why.

A sharp, silver, foot-long spear protruded from her belly, going through her stomach. It was buried in the grass under her. She was pinned to the ground.

< The Sepulcher > she realized, dazed.

The figure, the warlock of Doyle's vision, completed its incantation. Morghane looked on, helpless, as it took hold of the ornamental handle of the Sepulcher then twisted viciously before pulling it out of her.

A strangled cry escaped the Guardian as her consciousness swam in and out. She was drowning in her own blood.

She fought the darkness down - and failed.

 

 

She awoke some time later, alone.

And she wished she would pass out again, slowly fade away and die.

Her body was on fire. There wasn't an inch of her that didn't hurt. She would probably have a hard time finding skin that wasn't bruised or a bone that wasn't broken. She did not remember ever being in that much pain, and God knew she wasn't lacking in the experience department.

She had been beaten while unconscious. Whoever ordered this was either a sadist or wanted to make sure she died quickly.

< Or all of the above. >

Now her body would call onto the magick to heal her as it usually did - except that now her supply was not infinite anymore. The seriousness of her injuries was only going to speed up the process, bring the end closer.

No Guardian could survive the Sepulcher.

She knew what had to be done.

She lay there for an hour, watching the stars revolve around an invisible pivot and the moon inch its way towards the horizon. When she felt strong enough, she called onto her power, knowing that in doing so she was hastening the inevitable, but there was no alternative.

She Summoned him to her.

< Spike. >

 

 

"Spike."

The vampire jumped and whipped his head towards the bed.

< Bloody wonderful. > Now she was delirious and calling out for him in her sleep.

As a rule he didn't mind attractive women murmuring his name while unconscious, but he wished Morghane would stop jerking his chain - even if she wasn't doing it on purpose. Even dying, she was still a powerful mage and the strength of the binding spell she had worked on him attested to this. He couldn't help but answer to her beck and call.

At first, he had been enraged.

One minute he was in L.A. plotting some fun at Angelus' expense, the next he was behind the wheel of the De Soto speeding like a madman towards Sunnydale - the last place on earth he wanted to be.

After the initial shock - and wrath - of finding himself bound to the Guardian of all people, he asked her why. Why him? He was privy to the history the Guardian shared with Angel and Angelus. He understood why she could not call onto the Slayer or the Watcher to protect her and she did need someone strong and resilient who could look out for her. She was weaker than a kitten. She had healed some but not as completely and as quickly as she should have. Yet any other demon would have done the trick. So why him?

She refused to answer.

Which was probably just as well. He figured he wouldn't like her explanation.

He didn't like what was happening to him right now either. He watched the Guardian thrash and fight against the covers and he only wanted to try and spare her more suffering. What the hell was wrong with him? He should have been enjoying the show and cheering, not feeling like Mother Theresa on a good day.

He wanted to heave.

Where did all those feelings of caring and worry come from anyway? He felt like he should be protecting the Guardian, not because of some stupid gais, but because he wanted to. And he was starting to think of her as Morghane too. She wasn't just the Guardian anymore. The enemy. Obeying her command became easier with each passing minute. It wasn't as much of a struggle as it was yesterday. Or the day before.

The demon that was Spike rebelled, straining against its bonds, thrashing and struggling and yelling. Wanting to maim, to hurt, to kill.

Spike approached the bed and leaned over the Guardian.

Her breath was short and her eyebrows were drawn together, her lips parted. Perspiration pearled at her temples and she shivered. Her hands gripped the sheets like claws. Her fists clenched and unclenched convulsively.

She moaned softly.

Spike reached out and shook her shoulders roughly. She murmured incoherently but did not wake. Frustrated, impatient, Spike threw away the covers. He had undressed Morghane before putting her to bed and she was only wearing a shirt. This new evidence of his despicable concern for the Guardian?s welfare fueled his anger. He lifted her shirt. Her torso was covered with slowly fading bruises and barely closed gashes.

Spike fingered a nasty-looking contusion over her ribs. Then he opened his hand.

And applied pressure.

Morghane came awake with a muffled cry and sat up abruptly, wrapping her arms around her waist to protect herself. She was gasping, her eyes glazed, and it took a few seconds before she was able to focus on the vision before her.

Spike was towering over the bed. Pissed.

"Will?" she whispered. Her throat was raw, although the screams in her dream had been silent. She looked around them, puzzled. "Where are we?"

"What did you do to me, Guardian?"

The coldness of his voice took her by surprise. She thought they were over this. "What... what are you talking about? I told you... already. I performed a spell to bind you to me..."

He growled.

She recoiled.

"That's not what I'm talking about," he snarled. "You did something else. I'm having those feelings" - he spat the word with disdain - "like concern... for you. I'm a demon. I shouldn't..."

"Care?"

He growled again.

Morghane sighed. "I... I didn't think..." she trailed off.

"What? You didn't know your spell would have nasty side-effects?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes."

"So you knew..."

"Yes."

His face morphed. "Explain. Now."

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

"You're bound to me, Will. And I'm bonded to Angel. And Angel is your Sire. His blood flows in your veins. Between the two of us... well, you can think of it as a virtuous spiritual circle. You have a piece of my soul, now. And a little bit of Angel's. The spell I used on you is potent. It's Guardian Magick too. And it ties you to the ethereal community. To humanity. Like a surrogate sou..."

"You returned my soul," yelled Spike, interrupting her.

"Of course not," she replied just as forcefully. She sat straighter in the bed, despite the pain. "You know what I think about THAT. It's unethical. It's inhuman. The mere thought of it makes my skin crawl. I would never..."

"You knew this would happen?"

"Yes. Just... not so soon."

"Is it reversible?"

"No." She anticipated his next question. "Not even when I die. Not even if Angel dies. And the ties will only strengthen with time."

Spike snapped and the demon broke free. "How could you do this to me?"

Enraged, he slapped her and she flew across the bed. Without pause he came after her, grabbed the collar of her shirt and threw her against the wall. She slid onto the floor with a cry. He charged, blinded by anger.

"How. Could. You."

He punctuated each word with a kick to her already damaged ribs.

Morghane curled up on herself. "Stop. Stop, Spike. Stop..." she pleaded, trying to reassert control over the demon.

He found that he was paralyzed, incapable of striking again.

< Fucking gais. >

"Stay... stay away," she rasped, holding out her hand.

Spike backed off, his back against the opposite wall.

"Stay away," she repeated. Before she passed out.