For Love of a Wolf: Alric’s Story

by SpikesKat

Chapter 1

She was cold.  

And in pain.  

But it wasn’t something she couldn’t handle. Her heart was pumping away, as if it was trying to make up for the time it had been silent. But that didn’t bother her. It was the wound in her neck that hurt. Marcus had torn the skin rather savagely to perpetuate the story of her being ravaged by a wild animal. With the medical staff centered on that as the reason for her dying, no attention would be paid to the two miniscule puncture wounds in her arm. 

Never again, she silently promised herself as she lay there unmoving. Never again. If they had to kill her off in the future, they were just going to have to come up with some better means of accomplishing the feat. 

With her eyes still closed, Buffy tried to figure out where she was. Something had been drawn over her head. A sheet, probably. Beneath it, she could tell that her shirt and bra had been ripped open – her bare nipples also feeling the cool, rougher cloth lying against them, rather than the silky texture of her lingerie. 

She realized then that she was lying on a steel slab, which was contributing to her feeling chilled. The cool metal sapping what little warmth her body had. 

Sounds drifted about the room, though they were muffled, and she forced herself to remain unmoving. It wouldn’t do to spoil all the work they’d gone through to fake her death, only to have it ruined by her carelessness. 

She wanted Spike though. Wanted to feel his arms wrapped around her. 

The shuffling noise finally stopped, and Buffy heard a door being shut. She waited another moment, listening intently, and when nothing but the silence of an empty room echoed in the darkness, she breathed a sigh of relief and opened her eyes. 

And gasped at the overwhelming darkness. 

Too dark, she thought frantically. Like she’d not even opened her eyes. 

Her hand lifted automatically to peel back the sheet from her face.  

Pitch black. 

Oh god. 

Her arms shot out, but had barely moved from her side when they slammed into something hard. A metal clunk echoed in her ears. Her heart rate began to skyrocket as she felt all around her, trying to determine just where she was, and why it was so damn dark. Her breathing became ragged, on the verge of hyperventilating. 

Buffy knew she was making noise, the palms of her hands now slapping at the metal walls surrounding her. But she needed to get out. She could tell whatever she was locked inside was small. Too damn small for her peace of mind. 

‘Let me out,’ she silently cried. ‘Spike, where are you?’ 

Buffy didn’t recognize the tingles announcing Spike’s presence looming closer, or the lack of darkness as the tiny compartment was flooded with light and the metal slat rolled free. Nothing penetrated her increasing panic until Spike had her in his arms, soothing her with whispered words and soft growls. 

“I’m here, love. I’ve got you. It’s okay. Breathe, Buffy. Just breathe…” 

~*~ 

“Buffy…” 

Buffy woke with a start, her heart ready to explode out of her chest it was beating so fast.  

Nightmare, she realized. Just a nightmare.

She felt strong arms wrapped around her, holding her loosely. Spike. Buffy murmured his name and tried to squeeze herself closer to him – not that it was really possible. But he seemed to take the hint and tightened his hold about her back. 

“Bad dream, kitten?” 

She nodded into his chest.  

Her respect for the undead had grown in the wake of her dealings in the morgue. She’d only been locked inside the cold chamber for a few minutes once she’d come to, but it was long enough that she knew she’d never want to go through something like that again. Never mind having to crawl her way out from six feet under.  

It was a good thing Spike had taken her out of the room not long afterwards. 

Clayton had appeared moments after Spike had set her free, hefting a body bag over his shoulder. Her gasp had echoed in the room when he’d unzipped it and she’d gotten a look at what, or rather who, was inside. 

“It’s just a glamour spell,” Clayton had rushed to reassure her. “It’ll wear off once the body’s cremated.” 

Buffy remembered nodding, her eyes locked on the girl being laid on the cool slab she’d recently vacated. Forgetting momentarily her state of undress, until Clayton shrugged out of his coat and held it out to her. 

She’d smiled and pulled off her torn shirt and brassiere, wincing slightly when the move stretched the flesh at her neck. She’d forgotten. Marcus had taken a nice chunk out of her neck. 

Her eyes had flown to Spike’s face, gauging his reaction. He’d not been happy. 

At all. 

Buffy had opened her mouth to try and explain, but she’d been silenced with a look. One that she knew not to argue with. Her mouth had shut, and she’d been pulled up against her husband. A few quick swipes of his tongue had started the healing process. 

Now, her eyes darted around the cabin, looking for Marcus. He wasn’t far away, Angelina tucked against his side. He smiled slightly at seeing her concern, but Buffy saw that it didn’t reach his eyes.  

Apparently Spike hadn’t spoken to him yet. 

She lifted her eyebrow, asking him without words, if he wanted her to talk to her husband. Frowning at the slight shake of his head. 

Whatever happened was between him and his sire, and her interference would only make matters worse. Spike’s words in her ear confirmed as much. 

“It’s between him and me, Slayer.” 

“But—” The objection slipped out by habit. Buffy was in full “momma” mode; she didn’t like to see any member of her clan at odds with their sire. 

“Leave it be, Buffy. I know it was necessary. I do. Bloody hell. I even knew he was going to do it. Doesn’t mean…” Spike’s voice trailed off, unable to explain.  

“It’s a vampire thing?” she asked. 

“It’s a sire thing. I’d do the same if it were any of them.” 

Buffy glanced around, not surprised to see a few heads nodding. A couple even bore smiles. She rolled her eyes. So much for it being a private conversation. 

She understood, really she did. Didn’t mean she still wouldn’t try to take the brunt of his perceived anger. 

“Would it make any difference if I told you that I made him do it?” 

Spike snorted. 

“You just don’t know when to quit, do you, luv?” 

Buffy giggled and snuggled closer.  

She looked up as the door to the cockpit opened and Bob stepped out.  

Though he was in the company of ten of the world’s most deadly vampires, he didn’t hesitate as he walked through the main cabin towards where Spike sat. Buffy had learned that Bob, as well as several other humans, knew about their existence, much like Travis and the others had, at least up to a point. That each of their “executive” employees had proven themselves trustworthy countless times. 

“Hi, Bob,” Buffy greeted the man once he reached them. 

“Miss Buffy.” He nodded and turned to Spike. “Steve wanted me to tell you that we’ll be landing at JFK within the hour. The sun will be up, as I’m sure you’re aware, but I’ve a car waiting in our private hangar, so that won’t pose a problem.” 

“Good.” Spike glanced over at Adam. “We’re all set?” 

“Yes. Joseph will meet up with Jocelyn tonight at The Cavern. She’ll take him back to her place, be seen on his arm for a few days, then fly with him back to England.” 

“I want you both there by week’s end,” Spike told Joseph. “And guard her close. Renee knows this needs to be done, but she’s not happy about their separation. You have your cover story?” 

Joseph nodded. 

“Good. We’ve got a few hours while Steve has his mandatory downtime then we’re flying out. The situation in London is about to come to a head, and we need to nip it in the bud before it becomes a problem.” 

Grim nods accompanied Spike’s announcement. 

~*~*~*~*~ 

The phone rang, just as it had been doing over the last several days. Ever since Buffy had disappeared, in fact. He didn’t need an answering machine to tell him who it was. He’d already spoken briefly with the Council, and been informed rather haughtily by Quentin Travers that he was well aware of both slayers’ deaths, and that only a single slayer had been called at their joint passing. 

Apparently, with Buffy’s brief death at the hands of the Master, her ability to “pass on” her slayer essence wasn’t possible – not that she’d really died anyway. Giles had wanted to crawl through the phone and ram his fist into the sanctimonious ass’ face. Only the thought of inadvertently letting slip Buffy’s new path in life had kept him quiet. He’d nodded, mumbling a distracted, “of course,” then rang off with the promise he’d return to England as soon as possible. After he’d seen to the final details of both Buffy and Kendra. 

No, it wasn’t Travers calling, or even anyone from the Council. He was scheduled to fly out in the morning to give his final report on Buffy’s death and be assimilated back into another aspect of the Council’s machinations, so there’d be no need for them to call. He’d already given his formal resignation to Mr. Snyder, citing a family emergency needing his immediate return to England as his reason for giving such short notice. 

That had been Thursday, the morning after Buffy had “died.”  

A beep sounded in the otherwise silent room, and then a soft feminine voice was heard on the recorder. 

“Rupert… it’s me… Jenny… again. Call me.” 

He ignored it, like he had all her other attempts to speak with him – guilt being a strong motivator. The blinking red light mocked his cowardice, his betrayal.

Because not once since his Slayer’s disappearance had he thought about the woman he’d been slowly romancing. Then he’d gone even one step further, and out of nowhere, feelings for his slayer’s mother had surfaced. 

Joyce Summers.  

Just thinking her name made him curse himself repeatedly. Giles took another swig from the glass of the whisky held in his hand, something he’d been doing a lot of lately. He ran the other through his unkempt hair and down over his face, wincing slightly at the few day’s growth of beard marring his normally clean-shaven chin. Since Buffy’s memorial service, he’d done nothing but drink himself into a stupor, but even with the several bottles littering his once-pristine coffee table, Giles found himself unable to seek the oblivion of unconsciousness.  

Instead, he was wide awake, his emotions tumbling arse over tit as he thought about the two women in his life. 

Tomorrow morning couldn’t come soon enough in his estimation.  

He should get up and make use of the shower, wash away the stench of body odor and alcohol seeping from his pores. Pack a few things for his trip to the Motherland. Maybe even attempt to sleep for a few hours. 

Another hour passed before he roused himself. The clock on the wall chimed eight times, informing him as to the lateness of the hour. He stood on legs weak with disuse, his body swaying slightly thanks to the copious amounts of liquor he’d consumed. 

Giles was halfway up the stairs when there was a knock at the door. He ignored it, climbing another step or two when a familiar voice called out. 

“Open up, Rupert. I know you’re in there.” 

Heavier pounding this time. 

“Dammit, Giles! Open the door.” 

Giles sighed wearily and retraced his steps. He opened the door, leaning heavily against the doorjamb.  

“What do you want?” 

“We need to talk.” 

“I thought you said all you had to say. I let her go. What more do you want from me?” 

“This is not about Buffy. Well, in a roundabout way, I guess you could say it is. But this is about the woman you’re seeing.” 

“Jenny Calendar?” 

“You say Jenny, I say Janna. Tomato… tomato… potato… potato.” 

Giles rubbed wearily at his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me.” 

“Got a minute?” 

The watcher stepped back and waved Doyle inside. 

“I’ll be brief. Angel and I, we’re leaving town soon. Tomorrow night, as a matter of fact. Really no point in sticking around. Anyway, I did it for Spike, so I suppose I could do it for you too.” 

“Spike? What does—?” 

“Sorry. Nothing. Speaking out loud. What I wanted to tell you was that Miss Calendar isn’t who she appears to be. She’s been playing you, been playing all of you. And if this thing with Buffy hadn’t occurred, bad things, really bad things would have happened.” 

“I’m sorry. What?” 

Doyle hesitated for a minute on what exactly to say. In the end, deciding to only mention the gypsy’s duplicity. 

“Look. Jenny Calendar… her real name is Janna. Of the Kalderash people. She’s a gypsy. From the same tribe that cursed Angel. She’s been using you, getting close to you and Buffy, and the others, to keep an eye on him.” 

Another knock sounded before Giles could respond to the emissary’s announcement.  

With Buffy gone and Doyle here, only three people would have cause to visit his home – Giles had discounted both Xander and Willow because he’d already informed both of his departure and said his final goodbyes. That left Angel, Jenny, or Joyce. 

He opened the door, his eyes narrowing at seeing who stood on the other side. 

“Oh, Rupert! Thank god you’re still here.” Jenny threw her arms around Giles’ neck and hugged him. “I’ve been calling. I took a chance and came by…” 

Her voice trailed off at feeling him standing rigid against her. She looked up and nearly flinched at the coldness in his eyes. 

“Rupert? I— is everything alright?” Her arms slipped from around his neck and she took a step back. 

“Hmmm, let’s see,” he informed her coldly. “Buffy’s dead. No, I wouldn’t say that counts as alright.” Giles ticked off a finger. “Kendra, the second slayer in my care was killed as well.” Another finger. “And, I’ve recently come in to some very interesting information. Which makes me wonder how I could have been so bloody stupid.” 

His hand reached out and clamped around her upper arm. 

“Ow! Rupert. You’re hurting me.” She tried to pry his fingers loose, with little success. 

“Oh, I’m going to do more than that, Janna, if you don’t tell me who you are, and just what you were trying to do.” His voice was laced with deadly intent as he drew her back inside his flat and shut the door. 

“Janna? I’m… I don’t understand…” 

“Spare me your protestations of innocence,” Giles forewarned, shoving Jenny away from him as if the touch of her would somehow contaminate him. “I’d believe my friend here over anything you might have to say.” 

Jenny’s gaze darted furtively between the two men.  

Giles watched her demeanor change right before his eyes. How the quiet, spunky Computer Science teacher became the vengeful gypsy girl. 

“You can’t keep me here.”  

She glared at him, eyes spitting daggers that would have quelled a lesser man. Giles wasn’t that man. 

“You’d be surprised at just what I’m capable of. My flight’s not due to leave until late morning, which gives me plenty of time to get the information I need.” Giles crossed his arms over his chest and waited. 

“I was just supposed to watch him,” Jenny blurted out abruptly. 

“Go on…” 

“I was here… to… to make sure he still suffered. That Angelus—” 

“So it was your clan that cursed him with a soul?” Giles cut in. 

“He killed one of our own!” she cried. 

“And countless others. He’s a vampire for chrissakes! What did you expect?” Giles barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the woman’s naivety, delusions, whatever. “You know, it doesn’t matter anymore. Angel’s gone. He’s left Sunnydale. I suggest you do the same. Go back to wherever you came from.” 

“I can’t do that. I have to know that the beast suffers. That he’ll continue to suffer. We’ll have our vengeance!” 

Giles stalked forward, forcing the woman back against the wall. 

“Listen here, Janna. You don’t want to piss off the Council. We can make things very difficult for you… and your clan. Besides which, I don’t think my friend here will appreciated your interference. He has… friends in high places. Now, I trust you can let yourself out?” 

Thankfully, Jenny didn’t bring up their farce of a relationship. If she had, Giles might not have been able to maintain his composure. She walked quickly to the door and let herself out. 

“Pretty magnanimous of you, getting the Council to look out for Angel,” Doyle commented once Jenny had left. 

“Well, Angel has proven… invaluable at times. And as you said, he’s his own destiny to seek in Los Angeles,” he reasoned.

“Yes. Do you think she’ll listen?” 

“I doubt it. But I’ll make a few calls…” His voice trailed off. “We’ve a good rapport with the State Department. I don’t think they’ll take too kindly to hearing about her falsified documents. And with the information coming from one of the Council’s representatives, that should be more than enough to get her shipped back to wherever she came from.” 

“If not, I can always let Spike deal with her. He may not realize it just yet, but his sense of family runs deep. That’s the real reason why he didn’t kill Angel when he had the chance. And if nothing else, he’ll appreciate being the one that keeps Angel’s soul in place. Speaking of, once you get to London, gimme a call.” Doyle pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled his home phone number on it. “I’m gonna need your help with something.” 

“My help? Can’t you just…” He gestured with his eyes towards the roof. 

“Nah. They’d throw a fit if they knew what I wanted to do. I’d have to hear them drone on and on for hours about how I’m not supposed to ‘interfere.’ Right. Like what I’ve been doing for the past week hasn’t been just that.” 

“Is it alright to ring you from the office, or should I wait until I’m at home?” 

“Home? You’re plan on staying there?” 

“Yes. I’m no longer needed here. The new slayer already has a watcher assigned. I expect I’ll be at headquarters, occupying an office. Instructing others with little to no field experience in the way of things. My personal effects I’ve got boxed up and they will be shipped home once the new watcher arrives later in the week.” 

“Oh. Well, what about Joyce? You two seemed pretty cozy before.” 

“I… it wouldn’t work. She is, was, the Slayer’s mother. A relationship with her would be… highly inappropriate.” 

“According to whom?” 

Giles didn’t answer, and his fierce scowl told Doyle not to press further. He sighed; he’d done all that he could with this one.  

For once, he’d have to leave it to fate to decide.

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