Title: The Final Link in the Chain (3/?)
Author: Northlight
email: uzenet@videotron.ca
Disclaimer: Joss owns all.
Written: June 24, 25, 1999
Dedication: For those who wanted more.

"God damnit!" Logan Traherne growled as his hooded eyes swept the confines of the small, blood splattered room. He looked down at the young woman at his feet, outwardly undisturbed by the realization that half of her neck was missing. There were five of them in total, each one of them sprawled out in a wide pool of their own blood. "Nobody informed me that she had the help of a _vampire_!"

His assistant, Marcus Faringdon breathed noisily at his side. "We weren't aware that Rosenburg had any contact with one," he said apologetically. Fleshy hands thrust inside of the baggy pockets of his trousers and he warily watched the other man from the corner of his eye. Careful observation of Traherne's features could provide valuable foreshadowing of the eruption of his legendary temper -- and his scowling, hawkish features were a safer spot for Faringdon's eyes to rest than any other spot within the room. He shuddered slightly, the stench of death permeating the room making his stomach lurch.

"Who the hell authorized this?" Traherne growled, finally commenting directly on the situation. Drawing up his trousers slightly, he squatted next to the woman who had fallen closest to him. Ignoring the blood licking at the tips of his shoes, he reached out. Steady hands ran over the plain material that had served as the woman's uniform. "One of ours," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

Faringdon blinked, his rounded shoulders slumping further beneath his grey suit jacket. Although the suit had been made for him, it seemed to fit him wrong. The shoulders seemed to invite a proud stance, not the slumped roundness that characterized his own. His suit jacket and shirt stretched unbecomingly across his wide stomach, and the flesh of his neck seemed to overflow his collar. He felt uncomfortable in the carefully selected and utterly respectable clothing that the Council insisted that he wear in lieu of his favorite pair of jeans and the comfortable sweatshirt that he allowed himself the luxury of indulging in when he retreated into his own room at the end of the day.

He cleared his throat, and let his eyes move away from Traherne. His eyes glued onto the bent back on one of the men working over the corpses. None of them tore their eyes away from their grisly work, willing themselves into invisibility from Traherne's sight. "Perhaps it was a... miscommunication?" he offered meekly.

"Not bloody likely. Somebody is trying to fuck with my plans, Faringdon. They know that I want the girl alive," he said, rage flickering beneath the unemotional surface of his words. "Bad enough she had to take matters into her own hands... but if I loose that brat she's carrying, there will be hell to pay," he stated, biting of each word precisely.

'That's the case no matter how this mess ends,' Faringdon thought bleakly. Shuddering, he fled the blood painted confines of the room, Traherne's eyes burning against his back.

With a grateful sigh, Willow pulled on the boots that Spike had tossed in her direction -- wonderfully flat heeled. He'd shoved the clothing that she was currently wearing in her direction minutes after her revelation. Willow had gleefully shed her blood soaked outfit for favour of the clean ones, so eager to be free of her stained ones that she hadn't bothered to retreat into the bathroom to change. As dangerous as Spike was, she preferred his company to moving the short distance from him required to reach the bathroom. She wanted to keep him in sight, to know that for no matter how brief a period, she wasn't alone with her troubles.

"So what now?" Willow asked as her head passed through the neck of the shirt she was putting on. She ran her hands through her hair, trying to force the rebellious strands back into some kind of order.

"I'm bringing you back to Sunnyhell," Spike answered.

"No!" Willow cried. "They'll expect me to go there, to get help from Buffy and Giles," she explained.

"Of course they will, pet," Spike said. "But that's home turf, we used the Hellmouth against your bloody Council before, we'll do it again. Most demons are as eager to snuff out Watchers as they are Slayers -- if they follow, I'll direct a few of the boys in their direction."

Willow looked at him uncertainly. "I didn't think that you'd be willing to help. You were always bitching about how horrible it was to help Buffy... I'm just surprised that you're so eager to get into the helpful vamp routine again. Not, of course, that I'm not deliriously happy that you're helping," she was quick to add.

"I'm always up to taking out some Watchers," Spike grinned, a hint of fang showing. "And this should definitely liven things up for a while."

Willow leaned her head against the car's window, staring at the black paint concealing the darkened stretch of road that they were careening down. She could see her reflection, faint and shadowed, in the glass. Her nails scraped across the window, tracing the lines of her face.

"Spike?" Willow said softly, not sure if she actually wanted her words to reach him through the loud music pumping through the car's interior. The music was turned down a notch or two, the pounding of drums and guitars no longer vibrating with the same intensity within her skull.

She shifted in her seat slightly, adjusting the safety belt around her when it cut into her. His face was dark, his profile lit by the moonlight trickling through the areas where the paint had not bee applied properly. "I lied, you know," she said. He didn't look at her.

Willow's finger twisted the unfastened belt of her jacket, the only item of clothing that she had refused to dispose of. "They didn't kill him. _I_ did." His eyes seemed to shine in the darkness when he looked at her. "Some of them wanted Erik safely dead... and others wanted him alive, to use him as a bargaining chip, or as a tool for their own purposes. I don't know what, actually. But it couldn't be good," she said harshly, no more faith in the Council's goals left within her. "I didn't want to kill him... but it would be even worse if Illianer or the Council could get to him alive, right?"

He didn't answer, she didn't expect him to. "I had to kill him... before they got to him. And I thought that... hoped that when he was dead, they'd have no more interest in me. Those who wanted him alive would have lost, those who wanted him dead would have succeeded, and they'd both move on. I'd be able to slip away, none of them knowing about my baby, none of them wanting her."

"I've never killed a _person_ before, Spike. All these years, I fought to save people... and I killed my own _husband_ so that I could get away." She reached out, twisting up the volume again, not waiting to hear what the vampire would say.

The music seemed to slam into her, pounding through her body but never washing the image of Erik from her mind. Willow dropped her head back onto the headrest, closing her eyes to hold back the tears that burned in them. She wrapped her arms around herself tightly.