Title: Something In Between
Author: Jonquil
Email: serpyllum@yahoo.com
Distribution: Just ask.
Rating: R (strong language, violence, sexual references)
Spoilers: Through mid-fourth season; AU after that.
Summary: What happens after "In The Company of Wolves?"
Feedback: yes, please.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to large corporations, and were created by the brilliant writers for Buffy and Angel.
Dedication: As ever, thanks to my long-suffering betas, Anastasia, Nestra, and Carrie. Most especially to Anastasia, who insisted.
Author's Note: The price I pay for waiting nine months to continue is that I've been thoroughly Jossed. So, this continues where "In The Company of Wolves" ended, in a universe almost but not completely unlike the Jossverse. Willow was kidnapped in spring 2000. The Solstice ball was in June 2000; Willow returned to LA, and eventually Sunnydale, shortly thereafter. Willow retrieved the videotape from her lawyer in spring 2001. Our story begins some time the following autumn...

Chapter 3


The room stank of vomit. There were far worse things it could smell of. And would, if she had to stay there for many more hours. Or days.

For the hundredth time, Willow looked around the bland blue room. As always, she found nothing there. Nothing to distract the eye, nothing she could put to use, nothing she could build a plan on.

She forced the welling panic down. Stop that. You can't afford it. Focus on what you can do, not what you can't. She had expected this situation, or one like it. She had made preparations, although they had been meant for a different threat. But some of her plans could still be put into effect. Must be, ready or not; François might reappear at any moment.

She shivered. She had to pull the trigger now, while she had the time and the strength. And the heartbeat.

Willow curled into a ball, rested her head on her folded arms, began taking slow, deep breaths, and withdrew into her own mind. She reached for the white, silent retreat within herself; once there, she turned to a wall of carved walnut cabinets.

She opened one small drawer, laid away the distant whine of the fluorescent lights, and slid the drawer tightly shut. One by one, she locked away her other external senses: the cold concrete under her knees, the sour scent and taste of vomit, the dark red shadows behind her eyelids. Next she laid aside her fear, her anger, and her pain.

Finally all that remained was her will and her power. She wrapped them around her, then turned her back to the cabinets, looking out into the whiteness.

Within her mind, Willow whispered "E luce in tenebris. Voco. Clamo. Arcesso." She couldn't hear herself, of course. Her thoughts seemed to rise up through syrup, slow and deliberate as the retreat of glaciers or the birth of continents. Painstakingly, she envisioned a sheet of white paper before her. She began to inscribe words on the paper, shaping each black letter in her head, holding the entire image complete.

"Angel. This is Willow. The Montreal vampires are holding me prisoner. I don't know where. Probably a modern building. I need your help."

She paused to reread the letter. Pathetic. But she had nothing better to add, none of those useful details like "I smell burning rubber" or "I hear train whistles twice a day" that would have looked so good in a murder mystery.

Oh. Actually, there was one very important detail she'd left out. She began adding words at the bottom of the image.

"This has something to do with Spike and the necklace."

She folded the mental letter into thirds and wrote Angel's name on the outside. Then she whispered "Ite," and the letter vanished.

So much for the easy part. She steadied herself again, then, still wrapped in her own will, spoke one word, "Fiat". This time, she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. Which might have been her own doing, or might have meant that nothing had happened. Either way, she'd done what she could.

Reluctantly, she turned back to the cabinets and began to reclaim her senses and emotions. She was sorely tempted to leave the fear where it was, but Giles had warned her often enough about the risks of using magic to escape from pain. She unlocked the last drawer, accepted the fear, then uncurled herself and opened her eyes.

Nothing external had changed; she was still alone in an empty room with no books. Her head was pounding. She was exhausted, cold, hungry, and frightened.

A familiar voice echoed in her memory. "Fear attracts predators."

Willow took a long, shuddering breath, leaned back against the wall, and reclosed her eyes.

Lavandula angustifolia, true lavender: antiseptic, calming, cloaks unpleasant smells. Lavandula stoechas, French or Spanish lavender: useless for magical purposes, looks pretty in a pot. Solanum dulcamara, woody nightshade: can be toxic. Do not confuse with Atropa belladonna. Atropa belladonna, deadly nightshade: narcotic, sedative, diuretic, extremely poisonous. Causes pupils to dilate; also used to cause hallucinations and death. An ingredient in traditional "flying ointment." ...

Spike pressed Fred's skull against the counter, nearly crushing bone. "That wasn't the answer I was hoping for." He pulled back on the head, banged it down again, and pressed a fraction harder. "Try again?"

Fred gasped, "Nobody told me nothing. They just said to give you the box when you came in."

Spike moved his hand to Fred's throat, then squeezed. "What 'they' is this, then? And why didn't it occur to you to tell me I'd had visitors?"

Fred gurgled. The gurgles grew more desperate. Reluctantly, Spike relaxed his grip.

"I don't know. I never saw them before!"

Spike reached out with his free hand and yanked Fred's thumb out of its socket.

Fred screamed, "I don't know anything! Rich... Suits... Scary..."

Spike purred, "And you took their orders because...?"

"They were going to kill me!"

Spike chose another finger, then broke it. "So am I. "

Lindsey stalked off to his car. It had been another tedious evening of meetings. So tedious that even the ever-present threat of "up or out" had barely kept him alert, even knowing that Wolfram & Hart's definition of "out" did not involve severance pay. Sometimes death sounded more attractive than a three-hour discussion of the use of alternate realities to extend the billable day. He reached into his pocket for his keys, only to be brought up short by an arm around his throat.

Again. He gasped, "Your point?"

"What have you done with Ms. Rosenberg?" The voice, as always, was arctic.

"I don't know who you're talking about."

He was spun, then smashed face-first into the cement garage wall. "Try again. There was a message from your firm on her answering machine."

Lindsey shrugged as best he could. "It's a big firm. We have a lot of clients. She's not one of mine."

Another smash, and suddenly his left arm was twisted behind his back, his remaining hand in an icy grasp, thumb bent impossibly far back. "Last chance, Lindsey. Unless you're ready for matching prostheses."

He racked his brains for some scrap of information he could safely offer. Before he could speak, his hand was released, and he heard a thump behind him. He spun around to see the vampire on his knees, hands over his eyes.

Oh, for a stake. Even if it would have ruined the line of the jacket. The prudent move would have been to seek the safety of the car. He'd never been terribly prudent. "Soul problems?"

Angel was back on his feet before the last syllable. There was a furrow in that Neanderthal forehead. "You wouldn't know, would you? This once, you may be as ignorant -- I won't say innocent -- as you claim." He turned his back on Lindsey and strode away.

Lindsey watched Angel's coat swirling out of sight. Always the dramatic exit. When he was sure the vampire was really gone, he pulled out his cellphone. So, our tarnished knight takes more than passing interest in the Rosenberg girl? Not a case for clumsy hands. He pressed speed dial.

"Lilah. Still in the office, I see. I'm so glad you're making an effort to improve your productivity, because Holland was wondering why you weren't making progress on the Meyers case.

"Oh, the Rosenberg case? I'm sure the partners will be thrilled to hear you're putting blue-sky whims ahead of immediate needs. I do hope I'm present when you tell them that."

Click.

He smiled, then punched in another number.

"Ms. Jenkins? Let me know when Ms. Morgan leaves the dead files area. Thanks so much. No, no, really, I was glad to help with your brother's problem. You're part of the Wolfram & Hart family now."


NOTES-

Willow's spell translates to "Out of light into darkness. I call. I cry out. I summon." "Ite" is "Go"; "Fiat" is "Let it be done."




Next Chapter