For Love of a Wolf: Alric's Story
by SpikesKat
Chapter 15
Giles fingered the small white card in his hand. Stared at the number he’d memorized, having looked at it often enough.
The past two weeks had been idyllic, his time spent with Joyce, some of the best days of his life. They’d done a good bit of talking. He’d told her of his ill-spent youth, leaving nothing out – including his Ripper days and subsequent fall from grace in his father’s eyes. Joyce had taken it all in, her expressive eyes devoid of the censure he’d figured was his due. She, in turn, had talked about her time in Los Angeles, how she and Hank had been unable to deal with Buffy’s behavior and how they’d had her committed for a time. It was something she’d been against, and had been the proverbial straw that had ended their marriage. Joyce had filed for divorce, pulled Buffy from the psychiatric ward, and moved to Sunnydale.
Giles had held Joyce while she cried, lamenting her poor mothering skills, her naivety of her daughter’s calling, how she’d despaired at Buffy ever amounting to anything, especially given Mr. Snyder’s rather long and descriptive accounting of Buffy’s suspect behavior. He’d soothed her distress, stressing that Buffy’s situation was unique. That she’d been the exception to the rule with regards to slayers.
“Most girls… potentials, they’re called… most of them are taken from their homes at a young age for just this reason,” he’d told her. His hope was to convince her that it had been the Council’s shortcomings and not her own as a parent.
“But, Rupert! That’s barbaric.”
“Families don’t understand. They can’t cope with the lives their daughters lead. Let alone that monsters are real and not a figment of one’s imagination,” he’d replied, though secretly, he’d been inclined to agree.
Buffy, with her family, her friends, had been a much better slayer than those that had come before her. She’d defied policy and prophecy, and done away with the Master, effectively preventing his return. True, her methods had been somewhat unorthodox, but she’d gotten the job done, and had continued to do so.
They’d eventually moved on to other things, specifically their plans for the future. His position with the Council and whether he wanted to continue working there had been mulled over – he was leaning more towards not, given Travers’ disapproval to his budding romance with Joyce. He’d ignored the pointed comments and reproachful looks from the man thus far, making sure that the teachings he imparted to the latest up and coming watchers was within the Council’s doctrine, leaving no room for the Head Councilman to complain about his performance.
It was only a temporary solution. At some point he was going to have to take a stand. Either Travers was going to have to accept that Joyce was in his life, and would in all likelihood remain thus, or Giles was going to have to submit his formal letter of resignation.
Which was why he could no longer put off making the call.
Joyce was fast asleep in the bedroom and Giles sighed and palmed the receiver, dialing the necessary digits to place the transatlantic call.
It was answered on the second ring, the terse hello startling him, so that he stammered out his own awkward greeting.
“Rupert, old chap! Was wondering if you’d forgotten about me. How are things back in the motherland? I hear you’re making waves at Headquarters… Good on you!”
Giles didn’t bother to ask how Doyle knew about him and Joyce, putting it down to the half-breed’s inside connections with the Powers.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called before now. I’ve been… uh... rather busy. What was it you needed from me?”
“I need a book. And your Council seems to have the only copy I can get my hands on.”
Doyle rattled off the name and Giles’ eye went wide. The book he’d named – there was a reason a copy was hard to come by. It was a spell book, and a powerful one at that.
“Why— that is… What do you need it for?”
“Need a binding spell,” Doyle told him without preamble. “Gonna bind Angel’s soul. For good this time.”
Giles mouth worked, but nothing came out for several minutes. Then, “Are you saying that Angel is in danger of losing his soul?”
Doyle chuckled.
“Not unless he becomes freakishly happy in the near future, which I don’t really foresee happening. I think he’s still smarting about Buffy and Spike being together. Pays to be cautious, though. Angel’s soul is a curse. A moment’s happiness, true happiness, and we’ve got Angelus back in the fold. I don’t have to say what would happen then. I’m sure you’re well aware of that bastard’s proclivities for mayhem.”
“Erm… quite!”
“So… binding spell. And a damn good one, is what I’m thinking.”
Giles cleared his throat.
“I’ll begin my search in the morning. The Council’s libraries are rather extensive and the book you want will most likely be warded to the less trained eye.”
“Something you’re not, eh, Ripper?” Doyle interjected, chuckling.
“Barring any unforeseeable circumstances,” Giles went on as if he’d not heard, “I should have what you need at week’s end. Is that soon enough?”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Very well. I’ll ring you when I’ve found it.” He was about to hang up when another thought hit him. “Do you… uh… have someone? To… uh… perform the spell.”
“Uh huh… you,” Doyle replied. Grinning, because he could picture the look on the watcher’s face. Shock. Anger at his presumptuousness.
Giles sighed, long and loud and removed his glasses. He dropped them on his desk before pinching the bridge of his nose. Neither said a word and the international connection crackled once or twice in the silence.
“Very well. The offices close at the end of the week. I suppose I can squeeze in a trip stateside during the holiday.”
“May be for the best, you coming here,” Doyle agreed. “Don’t fancy bringing Angel to London. Not with Spike still in the vicinity.”
“You know about Spike?”
“’course I do. He’s my mate. We do keep in touch, if somewhat infrequently. He’s really looking forward to the holiday celebration the Slayer’s got planned.”
From the tone of his voice, Giles knew the man was lying, and he chuckled momentarily.
“Told you about that, did he?”
“Uh huh. Just takin’ the piss, though. There’s not much Spike wouldn’t do for that wife of his, and a Christmas get-together falls on the lower end of his ‘annoyance’ spectrum, even if both you and Joyce are gonna be there.”
Giles could well relate. If it were not for Joyce, he would have spent a quiet evening at home. Instead, he’d been sent a formal invitation by the Countess of Hastings – written in her own hand, no less – requesting Joyce’s, and by extension, his presence at her country estate, making mention of hers and Joyce’s introduction at the art gallery and her desire to discuss a lucrative business venture between the two. He didn’t even bother to question how Spike and Buffy had known where he lived. Still, he’d recognized the proposal as the veiled attempt it was: a means to get Buffy and her mother together.
“We leave for the Countess’ at the end of the week and will be there through Christmas. With any luck, I’ll find what I need before then, and fly out… probably the 27th or 28th.”
“Alright. Call me when you land in LAX and I’ll come get you. I’m only fifteen minutes away from the airport. Spell shouldn’t take more than a day to prepare. You should be back in England before the new year.”
Giles rung off after assuring Doyle that he would. He replaced his glasses, stood, and made his way out of his office, pausing only long enough to flick the light switch off on the way out the door.
Joyce slept on as he stripped out of his clothes and slid between the sheets next to her. She rolled over, having subconsciously sensed his presence in the bed, and burrowed into his side. It felt good, having someone to hold, someone that cared – who he cared for in return. His arms slid about her automatically; Joyce’s breathy sigh of contentment brought a smile to his face.
With so much occupying his mind – locating the spell book for Doyle, securing Angel’s soul, spending the Christmas holiday with Spike and his clan, and his tenuous position within the Council – it was a while before he succumbed to his exhaustion and slept.
~*~*~*~*~
Jocelyn’s study was a welcome respite from the merrymaking going on in another wing of the estate, and Spike settled behind the desk to read the latest report from Adam. For the past three weeks, the two had done everything they could think of in order to track down Alric.
All to no avail.
It was like his youngest had disappeared off the face of the planet. Alric didn’t want to be found, and was doing his damnedest to keep it that way. Even switching their resources from tracking Alric to tracking Bob wasn’t helping. If he weren’t so pleased with the human’s loyalty towards one of his own, he would have been pissed that the man had gone off without so much as a “by your leave” from him. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have words with Bob once his childe finally resurfaced. Put the fear of his place as Sire in the man.
But it wasn’t the human’s behavior that had Spike in an uproar. Or even his childe’s sudden desire to go on walkabout. No, it was the N’agrom demon’s comment about his childe’s consort that drew him up short. Had him pinning the much larger demon against the wall and demanding he repeat himself. The demon had caved beneath his stare, explaining how he’d caught a glimpse of the girl when the vampire and human had moved their things in.
“Could smell him on her. And not just the claim,” he’d stammered.
Spike had let the demon drop and demanded the key to the apartment. Thankfully, he’d sent Adam on to the hotel to glean anything from there, leaving him to search the rundown apartment building, so he was none the wiser. He’d opened the door and been assaulted by the scent of childe and human – both the girl and Bob. A thorough search of the apartment had turned up nothing, save the single sheet of paper left on the kitchen counter listing several demon breeders operating in and around England. Growling and swearing, he’d snatched it up and stormed from the room. Mindful to lock the place up behind him.
In the lobby, Spike had expressed his desire that the room remain untouched, that he’d be keeping his eye on the place and would know if anything was tampered with. The demon had nodded his assurances that it would be as he commanded – he’d see to it personally. Spike had left a business card through one of his front companies for the N’agrom to get word to him if anything out of the ordinary were to occur.
Then he’d left.
And for the past week, he’d called himself all kinds of fools for not recognizing the signs in Alric. Though to give himself credit, he’d claimed the Slayer so long ago, and so much had happened in the interim, that he couldn’t distinctly remember his own possessive behavior. Plus, there’d been the fact that he’d not been thrilled with the prospect of being tied to Buffy for the rest of his unlife and had resisted all attempts of his demon to take what was rightfully his.
The door opened and Spike knew without looking that it was Buffy. He put his cup down and opened his arms.
She flew forward, much like when she’d been his Elizabeth, the pleats of her skirt threatening to come undone in her haste to reach him. It had been her idea for the clan to don their plaids for tonight’s festivities, and though his childer had rolled their eyes, Spike had seen the sheen in a few of them as his wife had gone on about family and tradition.
“I miss him,” Buffy murmured into his chest. “It’s not the same, him not being here.”
“No, it’s not,” Spike agreed. He nuzzled into her hair and smiled when she shifted on his lap. “But, it’s not like he’s gone for good. Just wrapping up a few loose ends, is all.”
He’d not told Buffy of his failed attempts to track Alric’s movements, not wanting to worry her needlessly. No one, save Adam, knew that he’d even tried. For now, he let them all think that Alric was off in Asia, doing what he said he was doing – taking out some of the larger slave traders’ establishments.
Spike sensed the Slayer hesitate, like she wanted to say more, perhaps question him further, and figured he’d head her off at the pass. He tilted her head up and captured her lips, kissing her until she was breathless and panting.
“Prolly should get back to the party, eh, love?”
Buffy blushed and scrambled out of Spike’s lap and set her plaid to rights. Thoughts of straddling the vampire’s lap, lifting her skirts and his plaid for a quickie, she banished from her mind. Knowing that it would be just her luck that her mother would come searching for her and walk in on the two of them.
Spike’s nostrils flared at the sudden burst of pheromones coming from the Slayer, and witnessed the telltale blush staining her cheeks.
“Mmmm… Slayer’s got a dirty mind. Fancy a bit of a shag, pet?”
“No,” she denied, but her body was saying, yes please, push me up the wall and have your wicked way with me.
Luckily for her, Spike was adept at reading her body and ignoring the words that came out of her mouth. With a flick of his wrist, her plaid fell away, leaving her bare from the waist down.
It ended up being the floor behind the desk instead of the wall, not that she was complaining. She parted her legs and Spike settled between them. Her hands grasped the bottom edge of his kilt and lifted it out of the way. Felt the head of his cock brush against her pussy.
“Please, Spike,” she begged, unwilling to put up with any of his tortuous delaying tactics.
Spike swallowed the Slayer’s moan as he slid home. Perfect. So bloody perfect, he couldn’t help but think. And he kissed her, pouring everything he had, everything he was into it. Showing her without words, what she meant to him. Both the man and the demon.
Neither heard the footsteps draw closer and pause outside the door. Nor did they hear the male chuckle – Marcus – as he turned and walked away, back to the others.
The words came eventually. Promises of forever. And mine, mine, mine. Before fangs sank deep and cries of completion filled the study.
~*~*~*~*~
Doyle was fixated on reaching Giles’ arrival gate so missed the leggy brunette coming his way until he crashed into her. He caught the girl before she could fall; his eyes widened slightly at the electric jolt he felt go through him.
“God! Walk much?” Cordelia snapped. “And hands off already! Sheesh.”
“Sorry, Princess.”
“Yeah… whatever.” She rolled her eyes and pulled away from the man’s grasp, refusing to be swayed by his charming Irish accent. “Watch where you’re going next time,” she muttered, then stalked off. Her plane was boarding.
She was already in a bad mood because her flight to Hawaii had been delayed because of a mechanical issue; being bulldozed by the man because he hadn’t been paying attention had been the icing on the cake. If she wasn’t already tired and eager to reach her destination – a week on the sandy beaches of Oahu, courtesy of her father – she would have taken a few extra minutes to give the man what for.
As it was, she dismissed the man from her mind and handed the ticket agent her boarding pass, and at a nod from the woman, marched down the metal gang plate, her wheeled carry-on held firmly in her hand. Service in first class was top notch, and Cordelia had a drink, pillow, and blanket before coach started to board. It had been a long day, and she was asleep before the plane reached its cruising altitude.
If she dreamed about children being chased by weird-looking demons in what looked like one of the downtown streets of Los Angeles, she put it down to her overactive imagination and the influence of the weird goings on in Sunnydale.
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