“Well, that was just… bloody disturbing,” gasped Spike as he finally felt solid ground under his feet again.  “And coming from a man who’s been tortured by the original Evil, flash-fried in a pillar of fire, and damn near sucked into hell in the space of six months… that’s an understatement, Blue.”

“I’m gonna have to go with Lemon Meringue on that one… this makes dimensional travel look like a drive down the freeway during rush hour—slow if not particularly steady.”  If possible, Lorne was somehow greener than he had already been, and he and Spike had taken a moment to rest their backs against the wall behind them.  Illyria, as might have been expected, seemed unfazed by the shift, merely cocking her head in an effort to discern exactly where they were.

Quick glances at their surroundings found them in the observation deck of the training lab, watching Wesley and Angel who in turn were watching Illyria.  If she found anything odd about observing herself, she didn’t let the disturbance show, merely turning her attention intently to the two men in front of her.  Spike and Lorne followed her lead, and it didn’t take Spike long to realize that the vampire was seething with barely-concealed rage that Wesley was quite effectively ignoring.  Casting a glance at Lorne out of the corner of his eye, Spike could see that the other demon was feeling the rage even more acutely than he was; he looked positively staggered, as though the sheer force of it was enough to sweep him from his feet.

Spike’s blood chilled as he heard Angel murmur “Serve no master but your ambition,” something his grandsire had apparently heard Illyria say, before telling Wesley that Illyria may be an important resource after all.  The significance of Angel honing in on that particular pearl of wisdom may have gone unnoticed by anyone else—it was obviously not raising any particular red flags with the watcher, assuming he was actually listening to Angel at that point—but Spike knew in an instant that those six words could have been Angelus’ mission statement.  He was certainly never one to be charitable to his grandsire's souled counterpart and his vaunted mission, but even Spike found himself stunned that Angel could be reverting, soul and all, to the self-important hedonism that had characterized his darker self.  

Angel moved to leave the observation room, and Spike, Illyria, and Lorne followed closely behind.  Moving unseen even though the office seemed to be bustling, they followed Angel’s lead and entered his conference room just as the door swung closed.

It was going to be beyond strange to watch all these little dramas play themselves out, Spike thought to himself, and they were hardly minutes into the entire excursion.  He’d always been an outsider, always carefully watching, observing, analyzing the groups in which he sought membership from their peripheries; this, however, was something else altogether.  This was watching the future and, in a sense, being powerless to stop it.  Except that by the watching of it, they were gaining the power to stop it.  Bugger the mental mathematics… it was bloody fuckin’ strange to watch your own future play out while you hung about in the corner like a soddin’ wallflower.  There—got it sorted.  Spike shook his head to clear his mind and then turned his attention back to the sights and sounds before him.

The three observers stood together as they gazed at the demon clan surrounding the pretty young pregnant woman, all of them gathered around the table at the head of which sat Angel.  Hamilton stood in the corner, easily recognizable after his extraordinarily memorable introduction, but even had they not known him a few moments of careful examination and the notice of his extraordinarily condescending air and impeccable suit would have been enough to let them know that he was the new liaison to the Senior Partners; only someone with that much power could get away with that attitude inside this building.  They watched as Angel went over some sort of adoption treaty, line by line, with the young woman, glossing over the explanation of the ritual sacrifice whose demonic name the three of them instantly recognized.  The word was the key—the baby was not a messiah, but a sacrifice, and Angel was leaving that crucial fact out of his explanations.

As the young mother signed the contracts and handshakes were exchanged by those present, the fact that Angel had just brokered—with no apparent stirrings of conscience or soul—a deal that would eventually see a baby sacrificed by a demon clan hit home. 

Illyria was unconcerned; this had little to do with her outside of the simple fact of her giving audience to the act, and infants seemed just a more pitifully mewling version of their full-grown alter egos.  One less was nothing to her, just as one more forced no modifications to her calculations of the world.  What this indicated in her calculations of the dark half-breed, however, was something else entirely; despite his protestations of protection of human life, he was willing to sacrifice it in its most helpless form.  If nothing else, it was a show of brute force that was beneath a true warrior and thus insulting to her in its barbarity and lack of valor; there was no need to expend energies on the weak when there were far stronger to be defeated.

Spike found himself wishing that he could be much more surprised than he actually was; Angelus had always had a thing for the young, and the only baby he’d ever seen him treat with anything less than savage hunger was the one Darla had attempted to feed him after the soul.  The remembrance made Spike’s own soul roil a bit, but he attempted to placate it with reminders of Connor; apparently Angel had done something right with an infant, because Connor had made it to full-grown.  Of course, there was the possibility that that had more to do with Wesley than with Angel; perhaps if Wesley hadn’t taken the baby Angel would’ve devoured his own son the way he’d devoured countless others… and this way lay images that his heart, soul, and stomach couldn’t take.  He stopped himself from thinking further, forcing the sights before him into short, quantifiable statements—Angel just sold a baby.  Add it to the list.

Lorne sagged against the wall, trying desperately to reconcile the cold-visaged infant broker before him with the warm, loving new father Angel had been only two years before.  Remembrances washed over him:  the affection and tenderness that Angel had demonstrated towards baby Connor, the love that seemed to light his never-easy soul when he sang lullabies to his son, the fury and anger and crippling depression when Connor had been taken, the shattering of the vampire’s soul that had nearly sent Lorne himself into catatonia when he walked in on the half-mad vampire rocking a burnt stuffed animal and singing Irish lullabies.  How had that vampire become this… monster in front of him?  Surely he wasn’t… he hadn’t come to this, not on Lorne’s watch.  How had he not seen?  He clung to the hope that something down the path would be different, would explain this atrocity, would let him believe that this evil wasn’t still inside a man he still wanted to believe was his friend. 

“Blue, think we’ve seen all we need to see here,” Spike prodded, more to spare Lorne further anguish than out of concern for himself or the mission.  He didn’t want to stay and see any more, and he had known going into this exactly what Angelus could be capable of; the empath, however, looked as though he’d just taken a walk inside the darkest corner of the shared soul of humanity, and Spike didn’t fancy losing him, especially when they were still so early in their mission. 

Illyria simply nodded, and Spike and Lorne moved to flank her instinctively; it might be time to move, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.  They knew what to expect this time and tried to brace for the searing pain and staggering dizziness that accompanied the shift, but it still left them panting and scrambling for purchase when they finally came to a rest with solid ground once more under their feet. 

The confusion as to their location ended when Lorne murmured “corporate jet,” but Spike found that he wasn’t nearly as okay with observing himself sleeping in a corner of the cabin as Illyria had been watching herself wander the training room.  Apparently he’d gotten right pissed before he’d gone to sleep, he thought, looking at the mound of tiny liquor bottles that surrounded his feet.  Rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of himself, he turned his attention to Angel, whom he could hear speaking in low tones at the other end of the plane.

He walked closer, and was able to make out both Angel’s end of the conversation and that of the… thing on the other end of the phone.  What in the hell had Angelus gotten himself into that he was skulking about talking to the sodding Immortal on the telephone?  Oh, it had been years , but you never forgot the voice of the man who’d kept you chained in a barn while he cuckolded you.  But Angelus had been there, too, so why would…  Angel’s “Make sure she’s away from the apartment tonight” and the heavily accented response, “Yes, I will take good care of your Buffy,” nearly brought Spike’s demon to the fore.  Angel was pimping Buffy out to the thrice-damned Immortal?  What the bloody hell…  He found himself clenching and unclenching his fists and his jaw as he tried to remind himself that he couldn’t touch Angel here and therefore couldn’t rip the bastard’s head off his soddin’ worthless body… not yet , anyway. 

“You are to take care of my Buffy for tonight only… you’d do well to remember that,” Angel growled into the phone.  “Spike is with me and she is not to know that he’s alive… there was no getting rid of him once he found out she was in Rome, but she’s mourned more than enough over the bleached moron.  Maybe this way he’ll lose hope… move on like a good little sap… I’ll have him back out by tonight, but she is to be away from her apartment and anywhere they might see each other until then, capisce ?  Ilona in our Rome office has your payment.  You keep her busy, you persuade the boy and Dawn to go along with the cover story—she’s moved on, she’s happy, it’s hopeless for him—and you get paid; you screw this up and I will rain hell itself upon you.”

A wave of possessive rage washed over Spike as he witnessed this attempt to usurp his new mate, and he knew that it was coursing towards Buffy through the claim.  He couldn’t stop it, and truth be told he had no inclination to.  He reminded himself that Angel had no way of knowing that she had come back for Spike, that things had changed and this wouldn’t happen; even so, he had the need to reaffirm that she was his, though the waves of love and reassurance coursing back from her helped to ebb some of his fury. He found himself fighting the demon for control with every unnecessary breath; interfering bastard trying to keep them apart.  So the Poof was paying the sodding Immortal to keep he and Buffy separated?  *But I thought she never loved me, Angel. She was always thinking of you…  Bastard.  Some confidence you’ve got in the love of your ‘soulmate,’ you brooding ponce.  Can’t believe I bloody played right into your hands ‘til she showed up here. *

Still, Spike forced himself to remember that it could be only Angel’s characteristic possessive jealousy causing him to enlist help in keeping them apart; the fact that he was using the bloody Immortal, however, smacked of something darker.  Angelus had hated the git every bit as much as Spike had, if not more so, and they both knew that he had reserves of dark power at his fingertips.  So why him to keep Buffy occupied?  Buffy was a beautiful woman, and there had to be scores of men in Italy that wouldn’t have to be paid to keep her company.  Unless she didn’t want to go out—unless she wasn’t moving on.  Unless Angel wanted her completely snowed under until… what? 

And what boy was he supposed to ‘persuade’?  Andrew?  He was the only one living with Buffy, besides Dawn… Oh, Spike was not liking this at all.  Even the currents of calm and love that Buffy was conveying to comfort him, having sensed his rage but knowing nothing of the cause, weren’t enough to stem the black rage that was building, and he really wanted to tear the bastard’s head off.  Angel was paying the bloody Immortal to fucking enthrall Buffy and Andrew and possibly even the Bit if she got in the way… all to keep Buffy away from Spike—to keep her under Angel’s thumb, even if she never realized.  He was stripping the three of them of their free will, but he was sending Buffy out with a nit who had no morals or conscience and the power to enthrall her into anything… Fury was just not a strong enough word.

“Shiva, get me the fuck out of here NOW,” Spike growled angrily, and although she looked ready to take him apart piece by piece in recompense for the tone in which he was speaking to her, and Lorne looked not a little terrified of the now-barely controlled vampire, she merely placed her hands back on their chests as soon as Spike returned within her reach.   This time, Spike welcomed the nauseating jerking sensation; it gave him something other than his rage to focus on and removed him from the temptation of trying in vain to draw and quarter Angel with his bare hands. 

Apparently, however, the feeling of needing to rend and tear Angel wasn’t about to disappear anytime soon, he thought ruefully as they came to a stop in the corner of Angel’s office, their visit perfect timed to observe a conversation between Angel and the dapperly-dressed Hamilton.  The stunned face of Wesley just outside the door told the three of them that they’d just missed a hell of a confrontation, but the conversation they were monitoring shot upwards in importance with the first words spoken.

“The Senior Partners were very pleased with your choice of sacrifice, Angel.  There have been rumblings that it was about time you came on board.  It’s no secret they weren’t happy with you before now.”

“And you don’t seem to get that I don’t care whether they’re happy with me or not, Hamilton.  Happy isn’t all it’s cracked up to be… ask the good people of Sunnydale what happens when I get happy, and I’m sure they’d agree.  I’ve told you what I want—in with the Black Thorn.  Make it happen.”

“Well, the sacrifice was certainly sufficient… and a stroke of brilliance, really.  To take arguably the most innocent of all of your people and turn them over to an Old One… well, that was genius.  However, the Partners have some concerns about Illyria’s continued existence and would like for you to begin making contingency…”

The brief tortured glances exchanged by Spike and Lorne conveyed a world’s worth of emotion.  Angel had murdered Fred.  Just as sure as if he’d drained her, he’d killed her.  And now, apparently, plans were in some stage of development for getting rid of Illyria as well. 

“I told you I Don’t Care what the Partners think.  They wanted a sacrifice, I gave them one.  And a damned good one.   What I do from here on is my business, Hamilton, not the Partners’, and not yours.  If they want to know, they can come here and ask me, but my plans do not run through you, do you understand me?”

“You would be wise not to take that tone with me, Angel.  I will not pander to you.  I’ve  already told you once that I’m not a little girl…”

“Doesn’t mean you’re not still a sniveling bitch, though, does it, Ham?  You work for them, I work for them.  Notice the way that hierarchy works?  At no point in it do I report to you.  Only difference between us is that I don’t owe my life, my immortality, or my balls to them.  So if the Partners want info from me, they come to ME.  You are my liaison with them, not the other way around.  Now, about the Black Thorn.”

“Single-minded, aren’t you, Angelus?” Hamilton sneered, a bit of his ineffable cool slipping at the diatribe he’d just endured.  Angel stood to full height, meeting Hamilton nearly nose-to-nose, and the face-off that resulted made the air thrum with tension.  Not surprisingly, Hamilton blinked first, pulling back and biting out an “I’ll take care of it” before strolling angrily out of the room, nearly removing the door from its hinges as he ripped it open to pass through.

In any other context, Spike might have found it amusing to watch his grandsire rip into the seemingly unshakeable prick and get a response… but after what he’d just heard, he was finding it hard to stand.  He’d loved Fred more than a little; sweet little bird doing everything she could to help him even though she didn’t even know him, and fighting Angel every step of the way besides.  What was it she’d said to Angel in the hospital that first day she got sick?  “Handsome man save me from the monsters,” he whispered quietly in remembrance, devastated by her faith in the person who had surrendered her willingly to the forces they were supposed to fight.  Hesitantly raising tear-blurred eyes to meet Lorne’s, he took in the tears slipping down the empath’s cheeks and gave him what he hoped was a comforting smile.  *‘s hard to remember how to comfort in a moment like this.*

Lorne felt as though he’d been stripped to the very core of his being; he didn’t know how much could be left of him after this.  The physical ache inside him was growing greater, gnawing at the edges of his already-frayed emotions with teeth of steel-sharpened truth.  There had long been times when he had hated feeling so much, had hated the access that allowed him to see inside people and reach the dark that lurked beneath even the brightest of lights.  But to see Angel… Angel, whom he’d read so many times over the years he had memorized the windings of the interior paths like familiar roads towards home… Angel, whom he believed he didn’t need to read anymore because the bonds of friendship should be strong enough to allow him the necessary glimpses inside… to see his Angel so cold, so calculating, and so downright heartless made him wish for the first time that he could shut himself down completely.  Just close himself off from the world, from the visions and the gifts and the glimpses, and live in a world where artifice was blinding and sufficient.  He had taken beatings for this vampire whom he had called friend, endured torments and faced the sort of terrors he had shied away from for years, only to come face to face with the one darkness he had thought he could save himself and the world from.  It seemed as though Angelus had never been as far away as he had always hoped and believed.

Illyria was merely concerned for her own existence.  She felt nothing for the soul that formerly inhabited this shell; had it not been for the sacrifice of that soul, she would still be entombed for the ages.  The departure of that soul may have caused no small amount of emotion in the others, but to her it was as necessary an evil as ever had there been; she would expend no base feelings for the loss.  This cage of flesh was not a home; it felt artificial and overly structured and insufficient to contain the majesty and fierceness of her power.  However insufficient it may be, though, it was still her current sanctum, and was pitifully vulnerable to outside attack.  Whatever this half-breed thought to unleash upon her could potentially murder her; that could not be permitted to happen.  Without waiting for signals from the others, she moved towards them and shifted.  She had seen enough.

This time, the darkness of the cavern in which they found themselves combined with the physical sensations of the shift to make it even more difficult to acclimate to their surroundings.  Spike shifted without thought, bringing the demon to the fore to aid his vision in the fire-flickered darkness of their current location.  The room was ringed with robed figures and empty save for the one less richly-robed figure slumped in the small circle of light in the cavern’s center.  His gaze flickered to the side only long enough to ensure that both Illyria and Lorne had adjusted to the darkness, but the moment’s inattention was nearly long enough for him to miss the entrance of another figure, this one in rapid forward motion through the wall of flames. 

Tensing as the figure came to rest in front of the slumped body at the center of the room, Spike needed only a moment to recognize not only the coat but the general bearing of the newcomer; only one person he knew managed to lumber and swagger simultaneously.  “Angel,” he growled, watching his grandsire pick up the shape in front of him and shake the hood back from the familiar face.  “Drogyn,” Spike whispered, watching the man beg for his life and then springing forward only to freeze, realizing he was helpless to stop Angel from sinking his fangs into the Keeper’s neck.  He stood still, mutely horrified as Angel drained the man and dropped the empty husk to the floor.  He sank back against the back wall of the cavern, watching the rest of the ritual, mind racing to catch up with what he had seen.  Drogyn… had deserved better.  The man had been a warrior, a hero, a guardian, and he had been beaten, abused and reduced to begging for his life?  The romantic in him bemoaned the fall of the noble guardian; the demon in him screamed for blood at the disrespect shown the warrior. 

Blinking against the bright lights that suddenly filled the room, he watched the shadows melt, watched hoods removed and robed figures move to mingle as Angel was congratulated upon his membership in the Circle of the Black Thorn.  His sacrifice was again celebrated, the violence with which he’d rent Drogyn’s throat and passed his final test was praised.  There was nothing about this that was good, nothing reassuring; hell, Spike had stopped looking for goodness in anything they were seeing four stops before.  These people were the inner circle of hell itself, the most forsaken ring of Dante’s Inferno… and Angel belonged to them now.  He watched as the dignitary from the party greeted Angel, mistaking Angel for Angelus and congratulating him for his “return to form;” Angel’s response sent ice through Spike’s veins.  Lips curved into a cold smile bleaker than anything that had ever curved Angelus’ lips, Angel simply nodded and replied, “It’s still Angel, Sebassis.  But you never really know, do you?  Maybe the soul just makes us more… creative.  More cagey.  Maybe it’s always been in me.”  Spike remembered Angelus, and he had felt until recently that he had a pretty good handle on Angel as well.  But now, as he took in the darkness of his grandsire’s eyes, the passionless voice and the domineering gaze, Spike realized that, on some level, Angel really had been just like this all along—and whatever had held the worst of Angelus at bay inside of Angel was gone.  

Illyria seemed to know that they were done here, or was simply bored with what appeared to be a cocktail party.  Within seconds they were facing themselves, listening to Angel convince them as earnestly as they had ever seen him that he needed them to help him to bring down the Circle of the Black Thorn, appealing to the “helping the helpless” line that had been their motto since they’d come together.  They watched him repudiate everything they had just seen him do so gleefully.  God, he was good.  It was giving Spike a sodding headache, and apparently Lorne wasn’t doing much better with it; he could see the demon pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache, and he felt a stab of pity for him.  As difficult as this was for Spike, he had known going into it the depths of evil that lived inside Angel.  Spike had, after all, learned how to be a monster under Angel’s tutelage, and though it chafed his soul to admit it, he had been a damn fine monster. 

But Lorne—Lorne had believed in the soul and in the power of that soul to buy redemption, and had believed that the man and the soul combined could overcome the demon.  He had never understood the situation as well as he should have, had never realized that the demon was in nothing near harmony with the soul and was constantly scratching away at Angel’s resistance.  He knew these things now.  He should have discussed the soul with Angel, discussed Angelus with Angel… done anything other than ignore the elephant in the room as he had always done.  But it was too late for that—for questions, for investigation, for discussion; seeing Angel now that the resistance was gone, when the demon was in full control even though the soul remained intact—that’s what was tormenting the empath.  Angel had found a way to bring the demon and the soul into balance, but at what cost?  How could any of them have known that the only balance the soul would find with the demon was a common ground of mayhem?

Watching Angel say it had all been an act—well, now that was a trip.  Spike had been a damn fine actor when he’d had to be, and he’d known Angel to have that same gift; but when the chips were down, Angel just didn’t have it.  He didn’t have what it took to convince so many disparate groups of people that he was what they needed.  Hell, he hadn’t even been able to convince Buffy that he was Angel and not Angelus for longer than a day.  And he’d been keeping this act up for two months?  This acting, here in this little showstopping performance, was Angel’s forte; quick, dirty moments when he could be whoever you needed him to be before the inner self that he could never fully repress began to slip through.  No, Spike was certain that everything they’d seen had been pure Angel, no artifice… but this little show could have its own category at the Oscars.

But at least now they knew what the bloody Circle did, Spike thought wryly, listening as Angel explained that Cordelia had passed on knowledge of the group in their last kiss.  She’d set him on the path, all right… but Spike sincerely doubted that the cheerleader or the Powers had wanted Angel traipsing down this particular road, becoming one of the Senior Partners’ bringers of evil upon the earth.  And the bastard was willing to take them all out… had them all signing on for a fight he knew damn well they couldn’t, wouldn’t win.  Where he led, they followed, and he was leading them into certain death.  Despite knowing what he knew of Angel’s motives, Spike couldn’t help but be proud as he watched everyone in the room agree to the fatalistic quest; no matter what their leader proved to be, these people truly were heroes—and for once he was willing to include himself in that tally. 

“Lorne, if you’re ready,” he murmured with uncharacteristic tenderness, and the demon looked away from the sight before him and nodded, a sheen of tears filming his eyes.  Illyria reached out for them, and in a moment they were gone.

And in his apartment?  Well, this was a dawdle… why exactly were they meeting in his apartment?  Spike watched, snorting in amusement as Angel proclaimed that one of them would betray him.  Always had been a pompous git, and what was it with vampires and crucifixion references anyway?  Good on future?Spike for calling Angel on it, too… would’ve been right disappointed in himself if he’d let the old git get away with something so ridiculous.  So this was the last big pep talk before their final day on earth, then?  This was the mission meeting.  Spike watched as his Lorne followed Angel and his future counterpart off to the side, watching as the demon grew slowly more furious until the rage was as palpable a thing as Spike had ever been in the presence of.

Lorne listened as Angel asked his future self to kill Lindsey, and tried to remember that violence here would do no good.  He didn’t think he’d ever felt fury so acute in all of his life, and he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.  How could Angel ask that of him?  Lorne had been a steadfast ally, as stalwart as they come, but he had always drawn the line on killing—anyone or anything.  He didn’t do it; his nature wouldn’t allow it; you simply couldn’t be open to all the pain in the world, all the best and worst that someone could experience, and then take life.  The psychic blowback would be crippling—didn’t Angel see that?  Or was that what he was hoping for?  Did he need Lorne distracted so badly that he was willing to drive him insane?  He wasn’t surprised when his future version accepted the request; when hadn’t Lorne done Angel’s bidding?  He was a friend in need, and Lorne was nothing if not a steadfast friend; he knew even now that if his Angel—not this twisted, heartless creature in front of him, but the Angel he had thought he knew years ago—had asked this of him, he would have complied, risks to self be damned.  And that was what made the betrayal of the request all the more grievous.

Angel and Lorne rejoined the others, and the distribution of assignments happened quickly, each of them given a task just an inch beyond what should be possible for them to accomplish, Spike realized with fury.  Illyria and Spike might survive, although it wouldn’t be easy going for either; but to put Percy up against one of the most powerful warlocks in history? Or Charlie boy up against a pure-demon senator and her all-vampire staff?  They were being handed off to certain death… for what?  But once again he was proud of these people… proud of their bravery and spirit and sense of what was good and right, and he knew he’d feel the honor of their presence all the more acutely when they could finally return home. 

He watched them file out to have their last perfect day; watched himself depart, leaving Angel alone in the apartment, and heard him mutter “Doesn’t matter if you’re the only one up for the Shanshu, William .  After tonight, I’ll be in charge.”  It was more than Spike had expected—what did he mean, Spike was the only one up for the Shanshu?—and it still chilled him, but he froze when he heard his grandsire humming under his breath as he walked to the door and closed it.  His eyes shot to Lorne, who had slid down the wall to land in a crumpled heap of brightly colored silk on the floor as the sounds had begun.  It hadn’t been much, but maybe…

Lorne looked up through eyes made even more red by the heartbreak and fury that lit them from within and said in a voice vibrating with emotion, “Illyria, anytime you’re ready we can go back home.  My little Angel Dust there just told me everything we need to know.”