While Giles’ eyes were glued to the door Angelus had just crashed through, his mind was elsewhere. A mass of conflicting thoughts and feelings, his mind was at odds with his heart, and everything within him screamed for vengeance. For retribution. For justice against those who had committed this heinous crime. Spike was of no interest to the former watcher, nor were Angelus’ reactions, though Giles could sympathize with the elder vampire. 

He couldn’t feel his sire any longer. 

The bond between them was not there anymore, and Giles knew that she was dead. Buffy was dead. Despite what Connor insisted, and Angelus agreed with, Buffy was dead. His beloved sire, his daughter…was dead. She was gone, somehow, somewhere…someone had killed her. 

“Giles!” Connor shouted, not for the first time. Not dead, not dead. 

“Where is she?” Giles’ hoarse voice barely drifted to Connor, despite his advanced hearing. “Who took her?” 

“I don’t know,” Connor sighed, sitting on the bottom step next to the older man. 

Giles didn’t look so good, and Connor knew he didn’t look much better. The void within him lay open and bare, and he wasn’t sure he could survive it much longer. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d come to rely on Buffy’s presence, hadn’t known that without her alive, someplace, that this was the result. Emptiness. 

Not dead. Not dead. 

“She’s not dead,” Connor said aloud as he had been since her disappearance. He needed to believe that. 

“No?” Giles asked, remembering her other deaths. “I can’t survive another one,” he confessed. “I can’t lose her again.” 

Again? Connor didn’t want to know, he couldn’t bear to hear the details. The thought of Buffy dead was just too much to endure. He wanted to ask his father…many things. How Angelus had survived killing Darla, how anyone survived the death of their sire. Was it because Buffy was unusually close to her childer? Was it the ties they’d created as a Family? 

How were they going to survive without Buffy? 

“I can’t lose her again,” Giles repeated, closing his eyes. Connor just nodded, looking up, with haunted eyes at Saffir as she hovered on the steps above them. She looked scared, her eyes locked on her lover’s ashen face. 

“Come on, baby,” Saffir whispered to Giles. She forced him to stand, slipping an arm around his waist to steady him. She didn’t know what he was feeling, and hoped to whoever or whatever was listening that she never did. 

“I can’t lose her again,” Giles told her, allowing Saffir to lead him up the stairs to their rooms. 

“I know, Rupert.” Her voice was quiet, reassuring, though she was feeling far from that. Buffy was a friend as well as Family. 

He needed time to adjust. Time to get past the feeling crawling inside him. time to be strong again. He fought for Buffy; before she’d turned him, that was his reason. Yes, he wanted to fight the good fight, yes he wanted good, light, to triumph over evil, but he fought so that she might not be alone. 

He fought because he couldn’t abide losing her again, and in fighting alongside her, that chance was lessened. 

Now, he fought to keep her alive, too. He fought those who would destroy them; he fought those who wanted that good to win. He’d switched sides, but never alliances. He was dedicated, as always, to Buffy.

Connor watched the two of them walk up the stone steps. Giles, usually so strong and sure, looked defeated. Lost, alone. Alone…Connor screwed his eyes tightly closed, unwilling to give into the despair that threatened him. Buffy was not dead. He wouldn’t believe it. He couldn’t. 

Losing Buffy was unacceptable, and Connor didn’t care what he had to do in order to ensure her survival and safety, but he’d do it. Kill, lie, steal, whatever. Figure out a way to travel back in time and rescue her, it didn’t matter. He’d do it. 

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. 

A long wail echoed down from what had to be Willow’s room. Lost. They were all lost. The three of them because their sire was…gone. And Angelus. Who, as Spike had repeatedly told him over the years, didn’t function well without Buffy. Something about ending the world… 

Willow’s voice died out, nothing more than a whimper now as she lapsed back into the delirium that gripped her. That was another problem. No one seemed to know what had happened to Willow, what poisoned the blood of the last human she’d fed off of. Then again, they’d been grieving over Buffy’s disappearance, and hadn’t really looked into it, either. 

Hallucinations, sudden cries for Buffy or Paul, and a fever were only a few of the things that plagued Willow. Paul was worried, spending all his time at her bedside, reading through book after book to try and discover what had happened to his lover. 

Connor shuddered. He didn’t realize that his arms were wrapped around his middle, that he rocked back and forth, that a low keen of grief fell from his lips. His eyes were a haunted yellow in his still human face, and the pain of his missing sire was clearly etched on his features. 

A sudden pop sounded in the foyer, and forced him to focus on something other than himself. His loss, his grief, his pain. Was this how humans felt when a loved one died? Or was it worse with a soul? Or did the state of one’s soul not matter when it was someone you loved and needed in your life? 

“Connor?” He looked up, and for a moment was convinced that Buffy stood before him, alive and well, and smiling down at him as she had so many times before. 

“Baby, what happened?” 

It was Anya, standing there in her fur coat and gloves, looking as if she’d just arrived from Siberia. Probably had, too. Crouching down before the shattered looking vampire, Anya gently unwrapped his arms from about his waist, and took his hands in hers. He was trembling, and he looked awful. 

“I heard that something had,” she said even though Connor hadn’t answered her. “I heard that there was something wrong here. But no one knew what.” 

“Buffy,” Connor whispered, turning large eyes, moist with unshed tears, up to her. “Buffy’s…gone.” 

For a moment, Anya froze. She and Buffy had become great friends since her turning and Anya’s appointment as the liaison between Family and Vengeance Demons. They’d discovered much in common, and had spent more than one interesting evening walking through the streets of their new world. 

“Dead?” Anya demanded, horrified. “Buffy’s dead?” 

“NO!” Connor shouted, bolting upright as he did so. He looked wild now, crazed. “She’s not dead,” he snarled at his lover. “She’s not, you understand?! She’s not! She’s not!” 

Anya nodded, relieved. With a sigh, she closed her eyes letting go of the momentary fear that gripped her. Not dead. “Then what happened?” Her voice wasn’t as strong as she’d have wished. 

“Don’t know,” Connor mumbled as he let Anya gently lead him upstairs, the move eerily reminiscent of Saffir and Giles. “She just disappeared. Don’t know what happened.” 

Saffir walked out of her and Giles rooms just then, having heard Connor’s shouting. “Ah, Anya,” she said and Anya swore there was a note of disappointment in the other woman’s voice. 

“Connor’s room?” Anya demanded, fear, uncertainty, and dread making her voice hard and cold. 

Silently, Saffir pointed down the hall. “Third door,” she said and went back to her own lover. Anya watched Saffir’s retreating back with a frown. Apparently, none of Buffy’s childer were taking her ‘disappearance’ well. A moan/shout/something else sounded from the opposite wing and Anya jumped.

“What the hell was that?” 

“Willow,” this was from Saffir who had raced out of her room at the sound. 

“Willow?” Anya echoed, not surprised. 

“She’s been poisoned, we don’t know how. Well,” Saffir amended. “We know how. We just don’t know by whom or with what. She’s not taking Buffy’s disappearance well, and we’re afraid that her magicks will grow too unstable.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose as if fighting a headache. 

“Already the air around her heats,” Saffir continued in a tired voice. “Paul is trying to keep her calm, but whatever poison runs through her prevents that. Their room is destroyed, several minions have combusted simply by walking past her door, and Paul has several burns on his arms.” Saffir didn’t voice her concerns for her own sire, the fear that his lover would accidentally kill him in her madness and grief. That Saffir would then understand what Buffy’s childer were going through. 

“Willow,” Anya said as Saffir followed her and Connor down the hall. “That doesn’t surprise me. When Buffy died battling Glory, she went ballistic. For three months all she did was research a way to bring her back, convinced that Buffy was trapped in some hell dimension.” 

Saffir opened the door to Connor’s room, staring at Anya in surprise. She hadn’t known that. With what she’d witnessed this past day, with what she’d seen between Buffy and Willow, maybe she should have. Willow’s devotion to Buffy was nearly palatable, as was Buffy’s obvious affection for her childe. 

“Now that Buffy’s immortal, all lethalness and fire, she’s not supposed to die. With what you just told me about Willow, all that spare juice running through her, this is just the emotional catalyst we don’t need.” Anya gently laid Connor on the bed, tugging the comforter around his still clothed form. She had a strange feeling in doing so, a tenderness she hadn’t experienced in some time. 

Placing a kiss on his forehead, she stood and walked back into the hall with Saffir. Studying the vampiress for a moment, Anya wondered just how deep Saffir’s feelings for Giles went. She looked worried, tired and worried. Anya could understand. They were a family in the true sense of the word. 

“You’re telling me that this is just the thing to send her into a rage that rips people to pieces.” Anya just nodded, leaning against the wall. She was exhausted and she’d only just arrived. 

“This is her ‘Give me back my Sire’ mode,” Anya muttered. With all the moaning and wailing going on in this wing, she felt like she was in a loony bin. And yet it was Connor’s very silence unnerved her. He was absolutely devoted to Buffy; with her gone, there was no telling what he’d do. 

“She’s not dead,” Saffir insisted with a glance between Connor’s room and hers. “If she is,” her voice dropped, “Then nothing is going to survive.” 

“You’re probably right,” Anya said, straightening from the wall. “Connor’s insistent that Buffy’s alive, and if he ever finds out otherwise, this won’t be a happy place anymore.” 

“When we find out who did this,” Saffir countered, already heading back to her own lover, “Angelus will put the fear of God back in their lives. And I don’t think Connor, Rupert, and Willow will be far behind him.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Angelus, wrapped in the comforter that still held Buffy’s scent, trapped in the darkness of their room, growled. He berated himself for this, for leaving her. 

True, he couldn’t have known that she’d be kidnapped off a plane several thousand feet in the air, but that wasn’t the point. He should have. He’d promised to keep her safe. And he’d failed. She wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe, because she wasn’t with him. 

“Buffy, where are you?” He asked aloud, as he had often since he first realized something was wrong. That his lover was missing. God, he hadn’t realized that it was possible to miss someone this much, and for a moment, Angelus felt a momentary affinity with the soul. 

This is what he lived with for years? Angelus felt Buffy’s absence, felt the loss of his mate, but knew her to be alive someplace in the world. When she’d died, when she leapt to her death in an effort – pointless in Angelus’ opinion – to save Dawn, both demon and soul mourned. They suffered in her absence.

This was a thousand times worse. This, after years of being together, was unacceptable. It hurt and he raged, but it changed nothing. 

Not even realizing that he drifted into sleep, Angelus nonetheless dreamed. He dreamed of Buffy, of course. Of their life, of their future. What they were going to do once they found the way to use Dawn. 

Her small body wrapped around his, passion and trust. Her hands exploring his flesh, cool and demanding. Her eyes, bright green, hungry and needy, as they looked into his. 

Death and pain. He could see her eyes now, half closed against the pain that wracked her body. 

“Buffy!”
~~~~~~~~~~
She could no longer hold her whimpers in. And they had turned into torturous screams. 

For days, she’d managed to hold it in, hold the shakes silent. No longer. Her body was on fire, all hot and rage and clawing hands digging into her. Her blood was tainted, weak and thin. The bags these so-called Senior Partners had given her were awful; bland and putrid. 

Logically, Buffy knew them to be fresh and wonderful. Her body didn’t care. She wanted Angelus, his spiced blood, the passion and love, and need that he had for her was in his blood, and she needed that.

This was what she’d refused to admit to herself for so long, refused to let herself realize while she’d been with Angelus. Yes, she needed him. Yes, she craved him. But she was nothing without his blood. For so long she’d tried to keep that from him, tried to protect him from the knowledge that his mate truly was weak without him. 

He’d once said that he thought maybe it had something to do with her always having mate’s blood from the very moment she’d risen. Buffy couldn’t dispute that, not now. She’d downplayed it then, laughing it off so as Angelus wouldn’t worry. 

Worry. He must be frantic with it by now. 

“Angelus,” Buffy moaned, struggling through the layers of pain and delusions to find him. He was there, she was sure of it. But she couldn’t find him. Couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t see him. “Angelus,” she said again, weak with need. Weak. 

“Look at her,” the Ram sneered. “The Strongest Slayer in history, the one who was supposed to win the Great Battles-” 

“Until we came along and turned her,” the Wolf purred in satisfaction. 

“Hmm, yes, but still. She and her lover conquered nearly all the world, she’s strong, vicious, cunning.” He paused, shook his head in very real regret. He was hoping for something a little more…challenging. “And this is what she’s become?” 

“She’s addicted,” the Hart said quietly into the dismissive silence. “She’s addicted to Angelus’ blood. She keeps calling for him, and those are clear signs of withdrawal. Without him, she’ll die. The withdrawal…these symptoms won’t stop once the dependence is gone; it’ll keep on until there’s nothing left of her. Until it’s eaten away everything within her, and she’s dead.” 

The Wolf suddenly brightened at that news. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Because she’d been so focused on the fact that this slayer had a weakness, a vulnerability that she couldn’t focus in on the details of that. Ooh, perfect. With this slayer defenseless, with her so incapacitated, there was nothing stopping them now. 

“This is a sign,” she told her companions. Those she loved, those she hated. For uncounted millennia she’d been trapped with them, and in all that time the only thing they’d failed in was breaking free from this worthless entrapment, this dimension they’d been forced into so very long ago. 

And now they couldn’t. They’d been there for so long, that their bodies had already adapted, had grown accustomed to their new world. They couldn’t leave it now, even if they wanted to. With everything they wanted all too easily accessible, they rarely wanted to leave. 

But they were afraid of invasion from outside. And Angelus and Buffy having the Key was a very real fear. 

“We can do this,” she continued, eyes still glued on Buffy, shaking and pleading with her nonexistent lover to help her, find her. Rescue her. “Look at her, my darlings, look at her.” She waited while they refocused their attention on the distraught slayer, now begging Angelus to save her. 

“This is going to succeed,” she told them, laughing that sultry laugh that promised erotic delights and vicious deeds. “Now all we have to do is wait for Angelus.”
~~~~~~~~~~
He woke with a start. 

Buffy wasn’t dead. She wasn’t. 

Something loosened within Angelus, breaking apart and releasing the tension that wound through him so tightly he thought he’d die from it. Connor had insisted that she lived, and he’d agreed. In word, in motion, but not in deed. He couldn’t believe that she was still alive; there was something within him that couldn’t really, truly believe that. 

Because he couldn’t feel her, because he couldn’t feel their bond, the link that drew them closer than lovers, closer than individuals. They were one, together, never separate. 

But he could feel her, probably always had been able to do so. The tickle in the back of his mind was her; the tingling along his skin was her. Breathing with ease for the first time since he realized her couldn’t feel her, Angelus laughed. Alive. She was alive. 

“Baby, I’m going to find you,” he told her, even if she couldn’t hear him. Relief. Happiness. Joy. “I swear I will.” And then anger…his eyes darkened to pure black, fangs elongating in anticipation. “And I’ll make whoever did this pay.” Promise. Threat. 

Swiftly rising from the bed he’d briefly shared with Buffy before leaving her to run, yet again, from his past, Angelus took one final breath – Buffy, alive, freedom. Life. He smiled in perfect happiness, and knew that this was how the long ago soul felt. Buffy was alive. His beloved was alive. Laughing at the feeling, at the knowledge that they hadn’t taken her from him, that she was alive and waiting for him, Angelus left their room. 

It was time to find his lover. 

“Spike!” He shouted, renewed energy coursing through him. “Spike!” 

“You beat him to a bloody pulp,” Paul said as he walked out of Willow’s room. “Remember?” 

Angelus looked at his friend in silence for a moment. Paul looked like hell. Blisters covered both his arms and his chest, left bare most likely because of the heat blisters. His eyes were haunted and weary, and his face thin, ashen. Willow’s illness had taken a toll on her lover, and even if they’d never be as close as he and Buffy, there was a fondness there that neither had anticipated.

“Right,” Angelus nodded. Oh, he remembered all right. Angelus remembered it all. Well, most of it. There was this red haze of anger and grief overshadowing his and Spike’s interaction, but he remembered the gist of it. Buffy was addicted to his blood – which he already suspected. But not to this extent. Not to the point where she couldn’t survive a few days without him. 

And while he loved that this was another part of him that she needed, he was out of his mind with worry. How many days? How many days had she been without him? Did time move differently wherever she was being held? How many days was she without him? And all because he hadn’t wanted to go to Ireland, hadn’t wanted to confront his past. Never again was he letting her out of his sight for longer than an hour…maybe less. 

“Where is he?” Angelus demanded. Whatever blame lay on his own shoulders, Spike deserved no less. He knew what was wrong with Buffy, and hadn’t immediately called Angelus to report it. Hell, Angelus had even called him, just to check up on things. And still the worthless childe hadn’t said a word. 

So what did it matter if he beat Spike bloody or not? He deserved it. Plus, as Sire, as Master, it was Angelus’ right to do so. Paul just shook his head, eyes glancing between Angelus and Willow’s closed door. 

“Still downstairs where you left him,” Paul confessed. 

Not bothering with any kind of thanks, Angelus raced downstairs, and into the study. Exactly where he’d apparently dropped him untold hours ago, Angelus looked at Spike’s broken form. Scowling, he hauled his grandchilde up and dropped him into a chair. 

“Come on, you pounce,” Angelus taunted, slapping him across the face. “It’s time to earn your redemption.” 

Chuckling at the irony of his words, Angelus went to the door and called for a minion. Ordering the scared woman to bring him several humans, he retuned to his grandchilde. 

“I’m sure Drusilla is already on her way, so just be glad that I got to you first.” Angelus walked to the windows, opening the heavy curtains to let in the just setting sun. The light was faint, just a hint of the brilliance he knew it could be. And of the deadliness. “You know how she feels about Buffy.” 

Spike didn’t say anything, but Angelus knew he was at least partly alert. Drusilla, like everyone in the Family, cared for Buffy. She was blood. She was Family. And knowing that Spike had at least a part in her abduction, however indirectly, wasn’t going to go over well.

“You have one chance, William,” he went on, none of the worry, but all of the anger, clear in his voice. “Once chance to redeem yourself for not telling me of Buffy’s sickness.” Illness, sickness, addiction. It sickened him to know that he was the cause of that, that it was because of him that she was weak and vulnerable. 

On the other hand, his blood burned for her, the mark on his neck ached to feel her fangs sink in, sipping his blood in passion and hunger. His cock twitched in remembered pleasure, and Angelus knew that he wouldn’t change anything. 

“You’re going to find her for me, boy. You’re going to find my Mate and you’re going to hope that she’s well.” Angelus doubted that anyone other than him was going to get to Buffy first, but Spike had to have something to go on. It was always best to leave crumbs for those weaker than he. 

“Buffy’s alive, and she needs me,” he said quietly, uncertain why he was admitting this to Spike. But then Spike already knew, even before Angelus realized that Buffy needed his blood, everyone in their Family knew that the two Masters needed each other. It was simply a part of their lives, and they both were perfectly fine with that. 

“I’ll find her,” Spike mumble through a ruined mouth. But this was too important not to say something. “Don’t worry, Angelus, we’ll get her back and soon.” 

“I wasn’t worried, William. I know we will.” 

Spike just snorted as Angelus left the room, and a minion brought in the first of what turned out to be half a dozen humans. Well, he needed his strength back, and this was the best way to do that. Spike wasn’t even surprised that Angelus had ordered this. 

Scared yes. Surprised no. 

The longer it took to find Buffy, the worse Angelus was going to be. Without her, deprived of her, he was insane. And Spike wasn’t sure he could handle another bout of that.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Alive,” Giles repeated, staring at the stack of books before him with blind eyes. “Yes, of course she is.” 

Relief he’d never speak of flowed through him. He’d been perfectly honest with Connor when he said he couldn’t survive another of Buffy’s deaths. He barely did the first, still hadn’t fully recovered from the second, when word had reached their camp that she’d died again. Now, with her immortal, she wasn’t supposed to die. 

He’d never again have to bury and mourn his daughter. 

Opening the top book, he set about researching possible places she could be. 

“It doesn’t make any sense for whoever did this to keep her here,” he began just as the door flew open and Drusilla, Faith, Dawn and Lilah raced through it. 

“Daddy!” Dru shouted, flinging herself into Angelus’ arms. “Where is she?” 

“I don’t know, Dru,” he said, though his words were more fact than soothing, “But I’m going to find her.” 

Setting her away from him, Angelus resumed his place by the window, looking out at the vast expanse of land before him. He was only vaguely aware of what was happening behind him, of the commotion that his conviction caused. Instead, he was completely focused on Buffy, on her body, on her love. Yes, love. 

While Angelus had spoken those words, only a handful of times to her, she knew how he felt. Words between them had always been superfluous, and yet now he had an almost overwhelming urge to tell her that he loved her. That she captured his heart, and that without her, he was nothing more than a shell. 

Snarling in anger, anger at those mysterious ‘them’, Angelus let out a roar that shook the windows. Fist flying outwards, he shattered the glass that separated his family from the outside. Another roar, continuous in its anger and need, as Angelus pounded first on the broken window, and then on the stone and mortar surrounding it. 

Faith, surprised by the violence that clouded the air, crouched in a corner, holding Dawn close as the younger girl sobbed in fright. The Slayer in Faith, the only thing left of the woman she once was, knew only that she couldn’t harm the madman destroying the room, and that she had to protect Dawn. Dawn was important, Drusilla had told her so. Dawn was the key to it all, and she, Faith, had to be the one to protect her. 

Rocking Dawn in an attempt to soothe her, Faith let out a low keening wail. She didn’t know what was going on, might not have cared even if she did understand, but the emotions hanging heavy in the air pounded against her in bombardment after bombardment. 

“Angelus!” Giles shouted, dropping his book and moving to the enraged vampire. “You’re not helping,” he said quietly. 

“I’m going to kill them, Rupert,” Angelus snarled. “I’m going to find them and I’m going to kill them all. I’m going to torture them until they forget everything but her name, and then I’m going to kill them.”

“I know,” Giles nodded, relieved to see Angelus like this. The calm and morose Angelus of before scared him. This one encouraged him. “And when we do find them,” he promised, “When we find Buffy, we’ll be right behind you.” 

“Good.” With that, Angelus left the room in a swirl of fury and assurance. 

“What’s wrong with Master?” Lilah asked from her place on the floor near Faith and Dawn. She wanted to help, but didn’t know how to. She was adrift, no one would tell her what happened, no one would tell her much of anything, actually. 

“He’s going to go bloody insane,” Spike said from his position at the table, surrounded by books and manuscripts and yet more books. 

“He misses her,” Dru said quietly. 

“Maybe,” Saffir sighed, her headache still throbbing behind her eyes. In all her years as a vampire, she’d never had a headache. Well, there was a first time for everything. “We should just let him pillage and plunder his way across something. There are still those people in Africa, right?” 

Spike laughed, and then grimaced. He still ached from where Angelus had beaten him. Which meant that pretty much everything still hurt. Now why hadn’t he thought of that? Bloody moron. 

Standing, he yelled for George. The butler had accompanied Buffy and Angelus on their trek across the world, and was now motivating the minions in an effort to find Buffy. And keep the fact that she was missing as much a secret as he could. Pretty loyal, for a human. 

“Get the plane ready,” he instructed. When George didn’t move, Spike sighed and explained. “Angelus is going crazy here without her, and you know that.” George didn’t so much as blink. Great, just what Spike didn’t need; the perfect English Butler. Bloody hell. 

“It’s this simple. Either he kills us all in his anger over Buffy missing, or he does it to those we actually want dead. Therefore,” Spike continued when he saw a spark of interest in George’s eyes, “We’re going to send him to Africa. Let him do his I-don’t-have-Buffy insanity routine there.” 

Without a word, George bowed out and went to see to Spike’s suggestion. But first, he went to check on Master Angelus. He didn’t like the vampire, but he did like Buffy. And with her missing, George answered to her mate. Not Spike, though privately George thought that getting Angelus out of London was the perfect idea.

Something had to work until they found Buffy. 

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