For The Souls of Departed

Thanks very much to Kyrieane and Ladygaladriel, for the wonderful betas!

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He was out of the country before they'd even realized something wasn't right.

Damn wily bastard.

Spike would have known right away, of course, which was why Rupert had avoided him for more than a week. At least, he'd thought the Watcher was just avoiding him, after the fight they'd had. He should have realized, should have tried harder to talk to him.

"Spike, would you please stop pacing already," Wesley growled from where he sat, more tense then he wanted to appear, behind Rupert's desk. "You're upsetting Andrew."

Snorting, the vampire threw himself down into one of the oversized chairs before the desk. So far, they were the only three who knew, and they planned to keep it that way.

"The waiting is the upsetting part," Andrew commented from the window. As Rupert's personal assistant, he was the first one to notice the man was gone.

Had it been anyone else, Spike could have hated them just for that, but it was Andrew and, as annoying as the little shit was, even Spike couldn't actually hate him.

"Are you certain we shouldn't call Willow? She knows the spell far better than I and--"

"No!" There was no room for compromise in Spike's answer. He couldn't be sure how Red would react to the news, couldn't be sure she wouldn't decide to make Rupert's choices for him. He wasn't about to let anyone kill the man. "You agreed I was right, so we do it my way. You can do this. It's the only way."

Wesley opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut, nodding.

"It's here!" Andrew sat up straight, staring at the screen of his PDA. "He took one of the Council's private planes. The flight plan says they were heading for . . . oh, that’s not good."

"What? Where'd he go?" Spike was on his feet, right up in the boy's face now, vibrating with his need to move, to take action.

"New Orleans."

***************

Ripper grinned as the plane landed, chuckling to himself. It had been so easy. Not a one of the fools had even suspected. The pilot came back to ask if he should wait, when would Mr. Giles be returning?

"Never," was Ripper's reply, before sinking fangs into the man's neck. After the pilot was dead, Ripper was careful to hide the body, bundling it up into a duffel and taking it with him. Thankful for the lack of security surrounding such small, private flights, he put the body in the trunk of the car he'd had rented for him and slid behind the wheel.

Spike wouldn't have bothered with any of it, but Ripper liked to think he had more style. Beyond that was the fact that he wasn't stupid. There were still some things he'd need his old identity for, why cloud that with murder investigations? And he knew the Council would send people after him, people to either kill him or soul him. It would be better if his name stayed off the radar.

The money transfer wouldn't go through for another day. He had to keep the Giles name clear that long, at least. Then he could drag it through the mud all he liked. It was only too bad he hadn't gotten to pay his family a visit before leaving England, but there'd be plenty of time for that later. For now, he'd discover all New Orleans had to offer, now that he wasn't too tightly wound to enjoy it.

Putting his convertible into gear, Ripper took in a deep breath, reveling in the scents that washed over him. He felt alive and the irony of that amused him so much he actually giggled.

It was too bad Spike couldn't join him on this jaunt, but what with that pesky soul and all... he might have felt sorry for the other man, losing the freedom Ripper had so recently discovered, if he'd been capable of that. Not that he wanted to be, that would ruin the fun.

Shifting the BMW into gear, Ripper took off down the highway, heading for the French Quarter. He didn't have any reservations, but what he did have was a large chunk of the Council's money, and some of it in cash, enough to get him anything he wanted.

Catching a glance of his hands, Ripper sighed. His only regret was that he hadn't given in sooner. There'd been a hundred chances to grab eternal youth and he'd passed them all by with little more than a glance. Stupid, short sighted. Now... now he'd live forever, but he'd have to do it with wrinkles.

***************

The waiting nearly killed him. Spike paced the small plane, walking the aisle, muttering under his breath. How could he let this happen? He should have paid more attention, should have tried harder.

"Spike, you're going to wear a hole in the plane." Wesley looked far too calm for Spike's piece of mind. Growling, the vampire let his game face shift into place as he got right up Wes' nose. The other man looked up at him with a slightly bored expression, the long years of working with first Angel, and then Spike having made a vampire in game face just another day of life.

"He's out there, without any backup... shit. Think of all the people he could kill! He's smart, Wes, smarter than ever I was and more devious then Angelus, and a fucking sorcerer! He's gonna hate himself when we get him back!"

"And you expending all your energy by pacing is going to help how?" Wesley went back to his book, slipping his arm around Andrew, who slept peacefully in the seat beside him.

"I'm worried," Spike muttered before heaving a sigh and dropping into his seat.

"I know." Wesley's tone had softened. They'd come to be something like friends. At least Spike liked to think so, even if Wes would verbally deny it to his grave. The human had saved his ass a good time or three and he'd returned the favor. They'd trained new Watchers, watched as the old gang grew up and grew apart. The four of them had stayed close though. After the fiasco in LA, Spike and Wesley both felt they owed the Watcher's Council something. Angel hadn't agreed, but they were needed and they knew it.

Wesley's training as a Watcher was invaluable with most the others dead. Spike's experience and fighting skill came in handy. Rupert hadn't trusted him at first... but, really, that was nothing new. Spike smiled, remembering Rupert's attempt to help Wood kill him. They'd worked that out, rather violently, but afterwards they'd been... not friends, but allies. They understood one another.

That's where it had started.

"We'll do all we can for him, Spike," Wes' assurance pulled him from his thoughts. Suddenly drained, Spike only nodded.

"We're landing. Best wake up the kid."

"He's not a kid," Wes admonished automatically, shrugging the shoulder on which Andrew had laid his head. "Time to wake up, love."

"Can't I sleep a little longer? There's no meetings today and--" Andrew sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Oh... right. Are we... have we made it to the Big Easy?"

Spike just rolled his eyes, leaving the two to talk amongst themselves. They'd be landing soon and he wanted to get moving as soon as they touched down. He wasn't exactly sure where they should go, but that wasn't going to stop him.

They'd checked on Rupert's credit cards, but he was smart enough not to use them. There had been a car reserved for him, but that was on the Council's tab. The rental agency had told them what it looked like, but Wesley had talked him out of trying to get them to track it. The only real way to do that would be to tell them it had been stolen. If they did that the police would get the information, and get dead too.

The sun would be rising in a few hours. Rupert wouldn't have had much time to cause trouble. Maybe enough to grab a quick meal, but not to do anything too damaging. He hoped. The worst part was that Spike knew he'd have to stay inside. All day. Knowing Rupert was in the city, somewhere close by maybe. It was going to be the final death of him. Still, they had one up on the old Watcher. Wesley and Andrew could move around in the day, even if he couldn't. Maybe, by the time the sun set, he'd have Rupert back.

Spike picked a seat in the back, far enough away from the fucking lovebirds that if he kept thinking he wouldn't have to listen to their lovey-dovey crap. Of course, the first thought that popped into his head wasn't at all comforting.

Rupert used to whisper under his breath, even though he knew I could still hear him.

***************

Ripper waited until the shop was closed, standing in the alley across the way as the last two customers gossiped outside the door. The night air was thick with the smell of rain and heavy with humidity. Were it colder, it might have felt almost like home, though the scents were different. Decay was never far away, the mellow-sweet scent seemed to have seeped into every pour of old brick and concrete.

He was halfway to deciding to just kill them when they finally left, rancorous voices grating on his ears.

The shop was in the French Quarter, a little occult affair that made the Magic Box look terribly well stocked. Snorting, he entered, walking around the center display and glancing over the books out of habit.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the man behind the counter, young, balding, and far too cheerful, "but we're getting ready to close. Are you looking for something specific?"

"Yes, actually," Ripper picked up a small statuette, hefting its weight, his eyes roaming over it as he took in the slight smell of fear from the man. "I'm looking for an Orb of Thessala."

The man's eyebrows rose. "I see." He hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged. "Follow me."

He led Ripper through a door behind the counter, through a stock room and out into an old courtyard used by three or more buildings. There was a cupboard built into the wall. The man opened it, revealing shelf upon shelf of Orbs.

"People think they're pretty and with them being connected to gypsy lore," the young man shrugged, reaching in to pluck one out.

"Yes," Ripper commented, his voice near a growl. "I suppose they would be popular here."

As the man was turning back toward him, Ripper slammed the statuette into his head, knocking the clerk into the wall, blood spattering the orbs and bricks alike. The orb in the man's hand fell and shattered, bringing a small smile to Ripper's lips.

Just a little more work here, then he'd be free to have some fun before sunrise.

*****

Bourbon Street was crowded, as usual for Friday night, he assumed. The smell of alcohol assailed his sensitive nostrils, made bearable only by the thick tang of sweat and lust. The noise grated on his nerves. He was far too used to quiet and with newly enhanced hearing, there was a dull roar all around him. And that was just the people. The music was worse, bright and brassy, blaring from every club.

None of it mattered though. Ripper moved through the crowd with an ease born of not caring who he pushed aside. Snickering to himself as a group of teenagers all done up in black, sporting fake fangs, parted to let him through.

Ripper studied the people, the lights, the bars, but found it all hollow somehow. Part of the reason he'd come to this place was that it was something Rupert would never have let himself appreciate, something that would have annoyed the old man he'd been just a month ago. Yet, it annoyed him just as easily. Too bright, too loud, too many people. Spike would have enjoyed it. Spike would have dived into the nearest bar and had a brawl going down Bourbon before the bouncers could blink.

Ethan would have reveled in the decadence all around, the naked flesh and damp air, the endless opportunities for discord and disorder. Hell, in his younger days, he and Ethan would have owned the city. Ethan... now that was someone he had to look up. Was the man still a prisoner of the Initiative? He doubted that, but he doubted even more that his old lover had finally learned a lesson. He was out there, somewhere... he'd make things fun again.

And perhaps that was the problem. On his own, he wanted little enough for himself. Shrugging, Ripper followed a pretty, young boy into a nearby alley. He didn't have much time before sunrise and he'd already wasted enough of it.

The boy couldn't have been out of his teens. He smelled less of alcohol and more of sweat and come. Perfect.

"Hello," he said from the alley mouth, watching the boy whirl around with a surprised look on his sharp features. He wore glitter even in his dark blond hair and eyeliner to show off green eyes to their best effect. Ripper was a little disappointed as he'd been hoping for blue eyes, but the rest of the package was pretty enough.

"Uh, hi," The boy turned back toward the wall, hands fumbling with his zipper.

Ripper reveled in his new speed, in the way it made the world feel slow around him for once. He was behind the boy in moments, hand trailing over the nape of his long neck.

"Hey, man!" The boy turned, trying to cover his fear with a look of insolence. It didn't matter. Ripper could smell the salty-sweet tang of it in the air. He breathed deep, letting it fill his lungs. "Hands to yourself, okay! Shit!"

"I don't think that's going to happen," Ripper smiled, pushing the boy against the wall with his body, burying his nose in the young man's neck to catch as much of that scent as he could.

"Shit! Fuck! Get the fuck away from me!"

Ripper pulled back, just enough so the boy could see his face when he changed. He'd have to do this quick. Right now, the boy wasn't scared enough to scream. He might not be heard over the music, but one never knew. Feeling his game face ripple into place, taking only a second to drink in the sharp spike of fear, Ripper covered the boy's mouth with one hand, turning it to expose his long neck.

His teeth sank in so easy after that first little 'pop' of resistance. Fear made the blood taste sweeter, richer, and he savored every drop before tossing the corpse aside. Making sure his lips were free of blood, he turned to go back to the room he'd rented.

Tomorrow night he'd get his money and leave. He had several ideal locations picked out; places were he'd begin raising his own minions, his own army. They'd be a hell of a lot more obedient than Slayers, of that he was sure.

He'd chosen New Orleans because there were no potentials there, no Slayers of any kind. Regardless of the strength that surged through his fingers, he was no fool. He could take a potential, all unaware of her power, easily. A fledgling Slayer, one not past her third year, would be fairly easy pray. Anything more than that, a challenge he didn't want to try himself against just yet. He'd chosen the other locations for various reasons, but the Slayers were always on his mind.

He smiled as he walked and even more people decided it was best not to be in his way.

******

Spike was smoking when they made it to the hotel. He'd hidden under a heavy blanket on the drive, but getting to the lobby nearly fried him. Several people stopped to stare, but he ignored them, instead marching up to the check in desk and giving the staring woman the names for their reservation.

She gaped for a moment, but turned to look in the computer when he growled softly.

"You could tone that down a bit," Wesley put in from beside him, giving a condescending glare.

"Could. Course you two could be a little more fucking worried."

"I'm worried," Andrew protested, moving to stand beside Spike and whispering, as if he couldn't have heard the boy at a hundred paces. "He's not gonna get dusted, Spike. We can't help what he does in the meantime. It's daylight now; he has to be inside."

"Yeah, but you're wasting time! You don't know what it's like, boy! Every face, every... it haunts you. Your dreams, your memories, everything! I... I don't want him to go through what I did."

"He's going to," Wesley murmured from his other side, offering a small, supposedly comforting touch to Spike's hand. "We can't change that, it's already too late. A single death was enough, Spike, and we know he's already killed twice. The number of victims is variation in nightmares, not strengthening of them."

"And what about the people he kills?" Spike couldn't believe he was the only one thinking of them, he had to be misunderstanding.

"We will do all we can for them," Wes offered a sad smile and Spike suddenly realized that it wasn't that they weren't thinking of the victims, it was that they didn't expect Spike to be.

Fucking think they know me so well. They don't get it. Don't get what a soul is. How can they? Never been without one. Prats.

It didn't take them long to get settled in. They had next to no luggage. Four duffel bags, one each with clothes and necessities, the last with spell components. Thank god for the Watcher's private planes. There was no way half of their herbs--some poisonous--would have made it aboard a commercial flight.

Not that he would have either.

"You ready, Wes?" Andrew stood at the door, picking at his green button-down; waiting like the good puppy with which Spike often mentally compared him. It wasn't that the boy hadn't grown up in the last few years; Spike just didn't see it in his mind most the time.

Sitting there though, his hopes resting on Andrew and Wesley, he had to really look at them, re-evaluate. Sometimes, in his mind, he got stuck on one picture of a person, one image or impression that was slow to change. It had taken him a long to accept Angel for who he'd become instead of who he'd been, a long time to get over the anger and hurt and that was only one example.

Andrew had filled out, but other than that was pretty much the same, physically. He still tossed out geeky pop-culture references as if he had a quota to fill, but not when it mattered, like now. Now, he was quiet, not the chatterbox he'd once been. Spike had watched him training with the Slayers, watched him jumping into everything to try to prove himself. He worked hard.

Andrew caught him looking and smiled, trying to reassure. "Don't worry, Spike. We'll find him. We'll set this right."

"And just how do you think you can do that, boy?" He hadn't meant to growl. It was the frustration, not Andrew, but Wesley had always been protective of his lover.

"Stop it, Spike!" The Watcher stepped between the two of them, hard blue eyes meeting hard blue eyes. "Andrew only wants to help. He doesn't need your anger."

"Not angry at him, Wes. Angry with the situation. Didn't mean to growl at your boy. Now get off your ass and go find him!"

Wesley nodded, his frown melting into a worried pursing of the lips. "We will."

Spike only wished he believed that.

********

Wes and Andrew returned not an hour later to find him pacing their room. Pretty much just what they'd left behind, actually.

"What are you doing back?" He wanted to growl, to shout, but knew from experience that Wes would only make him calm down before he spoke.

"We found this, in the newspaper. I'm sure it's him," Wesley said, thrusting the morning paper at Spike.

"Wha?"

"Please, pay attention," Wes growled, shaking his head. "Last night an occult shop was ransacked, the manager killed."

"And why do you think that's Rupert?"

Spike stared at the paper for a moment before beginning to read the article. Apparently, the police were calling it a 'ritual murder', which had the local Wicca community in a snit. That seemed to be the only reason a murder made the front page in New Orleans. Scary.

"It's the picture," Andrew put in helpfully. Spike nodded, eyes roving over the grainy photo. It took him a moment to understand.

"Those are Orbs of Thessala," he finally said, a surge of excitement welling up. This was something, this was a clue, but... how were they going to follow it? "What good does this do us? He could still be anywhere." Spike tossed the newspaper onto the bed and slouched in his chair, enthusiasm squashed.

"Why this store?" Wesley asked, running a finger over the picture of the wreckage. "There are dozens of occult shops here and I’m sure most of them carry the Orbs. Why would he choose this store first?"

"Closest," Spike murmured, sitting straight. "He'd start with the closest and work his way out! He's in the French Quarter." Unable to keep still a moment longer, the vampire rose, pacing the length of Wesley and Andrew's room, mind whirling. "That cuts down the search area. So far as I remember there aren't that many places to stay in the Quarter itself, though he could be in one of these big ass hotels."

"No, he couldn’t," Andrew contradicted, settling in behind Wesley and wrapping his arms around his lover. "They wanted a credit card, just in case we skipped or something. If they'd run Mr. Giles' credit card, we'd know."

Spike looked at the young man, nodding his approval. "Good thinking, kid."

"I'm not a--" Andrew began, his voice blending with Wesley's who'd begun to say much the same thing.

"He's not--"

"Sorry," muttered, cutting them off and rolling his eyes. "So, we know Rupert's in the Quarter. What are you two waiting for?"

"He's not going to be out and about for a while yet. We're going to eat first." As he said it, Wes tossed him a bag of blood from the bag Andrew had been carrying. Spike stared at it, watching the pig's blood pool in one corner. It only made him think of Rupert, wonder what, or rather who, he'd had to eat.

The thought made him nauseous and Spike put aside his breakfast, instead staring at the paper.

****

The call came at four. Spike answered before the first ring had ended. The message was short, didn't need to say much. They'd had this worked out for a while now.

"We found him at a little B&B type place," Andrew said, rattling off an address that Spike quickly memorized. "Get over here quick. The rain's making it dark enough for you both to come out. We'll follow if he does."

Spike wasted no time, throwing on his coat and heading out the door, scaring a group of bead-covered tourists with a growl. He was on the street in moments, thanking whatever god designated New Orleans' weather.

Once he'd met the others, they put their plan into immediate action, not wanting to risk Rupert sneaking out without them knowing it, or worse, coming after them. Spike entered the small B&B while the others set up for the spell in the alley next to it.

The desk was unoccupied and Spike slipped past, up the stairs, following a scent so familiar he'd have known it anywhere. He got past the lock on the door with an extra hard twist, pushing it open quick, knowing Rupert would have heard him.

The room was... empty.

"Looking for me?"

The voice sent a chill down Spike's spine. It was so familiar, the same one that used to whisper to him at night, soothe him when the nightmares would let him have no peace. Yet, it wasn't the same. Deeper, filled with a mocking that had never been present in Rupert's voice.

"Maybe," Spike replied, turning to face his lover. Rupert looked the same, except for the clothes. He'd never seen the man in jeans and a t-shirt and now, he'd never want to again. It looked good, but would always remind him of the sneer the man wore, the derision in his eyes.

"Aw," Rupert chuckled, pacing a circle around Spike. Knowing that turning to watch the other man's progress would only amuse him, Spike instead tuned his ears to every sound, confident he would be able to tell if an attack were imminent. "Isn't. That. Sweet." Rupert's hand brushed him with every word, his stomach, his back, his ass.

Spike fought to keep from stiffening, to keep his posture loose and his demeanor unworried.

"If you say so," he shrugged, meeting golden-eyes when Rupert once again stood before him.

"You here to help them? Want to cage me with a soul? Who did the Council send? Sweet little Willow, maybe?" Rupert chuckled once again, the sound beginning to grate on Spike's nerves. Rupert's hand came out, stroking the spot between Spike's eyes. "Change for me," he murmured, leaning in close.

Resisting the urge to shiver at that oh, so gentle touch, Spike shook his head. "I'm not a puppy, ya know." It was a challenge, would be taken as such, but that was okay. Anything, as long as it distracted Rupert long enough for Wesley to get the curse done. Nothing else mattered right then.

"Oh, but you could be, Spikey. My puppy." It was the giggle more than the words themselves that made Spike want to flinch. He held himself in check, meeting Rupert's gaze.

"You really think you're good enough to make that happen?"

For once, Spike found his lover's grin truly scary.

"Oh, yes," with that, Rupert was on him, hands fastening to Spike's wrists. He was stronger, faster, what with the human blood he'd been drinking, but Spike had been alive longer, been fighting longer.

Dropping to his back, Spike raised his feet, catching Rupert in the sternum and lifting him up and over. Rupert flew, smacking against the wall with a thud that would have killed a human. The other vampire, though, was on his feet again quick, quicker than Spike.

Rupert tackled him, sending them both sprawling. Spike fought to turn, but he wasn't strong enough, years upon years of pig's blood taking their toll. Rupert got a hold on his arms, pulling them behind his back, high enough to hurt, and pressing Spike into the floor.

"Well, what do you say now, Puppy?" Rupert laughed in his ear, grinding a knee into the small of Spike's back.

"Takes more than one fight, ya bastard." Spike knew he sounded just as hurt as he did angry and that pissed him off even more. It was the voice that was doing it to him. He had so many good memories of it, to hear the other man laughing at him...

Just a little longer, he told himself. Wes will have the spell done soon. God, please hurry Wes.

"You don't have what it takes, Rupert."

"Don't be so sure," the other vampire murmured, licking along the back of Spike's neck. "What makes you think I didn't have this in me before? You think you knew me, think you knew what I thought and felt. You'd have been so surprised..."

"Not gonna listen to that crap," Spike growled, bucking against Rupert. "I know how it is. How different a person is, how they say things they never thought before. Not stupid. You're not him."

"How sure of that are you... Puppy?"

******

Wesley glanced around one last time, smiling his thanks as Andrew lit the incense and began the spell. It was complex and he knew from experience that it worked better in its original tongue, not something commonly spoken, but similar enough to some of the other languages he spoke.

Or, at least, that's what they were hoping.

Ignoring the pounding of the rain, nice and dry in the little door niche in the alley, Wesley closed his eyes and pulled all the power he had to him. It wasn't much, but should be enough... for once, it should be enough.

Andrew read the beginning incantation, Wesley listening close for any flaw in the Latin.

Once he began, the power welled inside him, the words pouring from his mouth faster than he could have spoken them alone. His body shook with the force of it, rushing through him like a flood breaking its dam.

And then it stopped.

He felt it, felt everything the magic felt. It slammed into a wall of wardings, hitting so hard Wesley was momentarily dizzy. He shook his head, the spell burning at his mind as he tried to redirect it, push the power harmlessly back into the Orb.

The effort had him trembling and then he fell back, head smacking against the door behind him.

******

"So, how about it?" Rupert whispered, pushing Spike's arms further up his back. "Have you re-evaluated my offer?"

"Not gonna happen," Spike spat out, biting back a scream.

"Well, we'll see how--" Rupert's stopped dead, his body going completely still atop Spike's.

The spell! Thank you, Wes!

Then the howling began, so loud and sharp it ripped at Spike's ears until he was sure they should be bleeding. Suddenly, Rupert's weight was gone, though the man still held his arms.

"Rupert?" Spike asked, voice hesitant.

"Damn that witch," Rupert growled, lifting Spike by his arms and slamming him into the ground, once, twice, three times and Spike finally screamed as the world faded to black.

******

Ripper found them in the alley. He was surprised to smell Wesley and not Willow, but it didn't matter. The reek of trash helped to disguise their scents, but could not completely cover them. When he found them, Andrew was bent over Wesley's limp body, speaking in low, frantic tones.

"Don't bother," Ripper growled, stalking toward the young blond. The boy turned, eyes widening. He didn't move though, instead placing himself firmly in front of Wesley's prone form, pulling a stake from his back pocket. "He wouldn't want to be awake for what comes next anyway."

"You don't want to do this," Andrew said, holding his stake at the ready and bracing himself. Raising his ridged face to the rain, Ripper laughed, the sound echoing off the too-close buildings.

Andrew charged, apparently thinking him distracted. The boy had improved over the years, but he was a long way from taking on Rupert Giles, let alone Ripper. He had Andrew disarmed in moments, still chuckling as he picked the boy up by his throat, watching him turn a deep red without air.

He tossed Andrew aside when he heard Wesley groaning, waking.

"Oh, look. The little dabbler is awake. Tell me, is there anything you're more than adequate at?"

Wesley looked up, squinting to bring Ripper's face into focus.

"Oh, god."

"Well, close enough," Ripper shrugged, reaching down to grab Wesley's shirtfront, hauling the Watcher to his feet. "Isn't this pathetic? Survive this long only to have me do what I should have done that first day you stepped into my library."

"It won't matter," Wesley shot back, his voice low and hard. "If we don't return letters will go out. Every Slayer on the planet will be after you. Do you honestly believe you can take them all? Rupert may have been an arrogant bastard at times, but your hubris is disappointingly stupid."

Ripper chuckled. "They'll never find me," he said simply, shaking his head. "Besides, that's not any of your concern. You won't be around to see it."

Baring his teeth, Ripper closed in, taking it slow to watch the terror unfold on the man's face. He could smell it building deep inside Wesley, but to his chagrin, not a flicker of it showed in the man's eyes.

"Get away from him!" The stake pounded into his back, missing his heart by a good bit, but the pain was intense.

Tossing Wesley against the door, Ripper turned, howling, to find Andrew weaponless, but standing firm.

"Oh, look at this. A little hero."

"Andrew! Run!" Wesley had hauled himself to his feet, reaching for the stake. He got it out, but Ripper only threw out a hand, catching the man by the throat and holding him off the ground.

"I recommend, Andy, that you go away now, or wait until I'm done with your boyfriend and then I can--"

A roar from the mouth of the alley drew Ripper's attention. He turned his head in time to see of a blur of platinum blond and black. Spike landed on his chest, sending him sprawling, knocking his grip on Wesley loose. The Watcher scrambled away as the two of them began rolling, each searching for advantage and a good grip. The rain slicked clothing and skin, making the second near impossible. Ripper growled, snapping his fangs at his former lover, trying to sink them into flesh.

"Wes!" Spike yelled, as if the Watcher could help him.

Ripper laughed, finally thinking he had the upper hand. Then Spike twisted, winding up on top. Ripper bucked, almost sending the man off, but Spike, his face a mask of rain-streaked blood, held on with grim determination.

"Finish the bloody spell!" Spike shouted.

Ripper's eyes flew to the Orb, which still shone brightly enough. Seeing that, he fought all the harder, managing to get one hand free and raking his nails down the side of Spike's face, thumb searching for the other vampire's eye, but not finding it.

"Andrew! Get your stake. Wes... try." With those words, Spike smashed his head against Ripper's. Skull slamming against concrete, Ripper screamed in rage and pain, finally catching the leverage he needed to toss Spike away.

The vampire was right back on him, but Ripper was ready, a brick in hand. He smashed it against Spike's face, laughing as it crumbled in his fingers. There was chanting now and Ripper turned to find Wesley holding the Orb, his voice rising to challenge the thunder that roared overhead.

Andrew stood between them, left arm broken, but his stake at the ready, jaw set.

Ripper only got one step toward him before Spike was back, arms tightening around his throat and legs tangling with his own. They went down again, Spike riding him to the ground.

The chanting rose to its crescendo and Ripper screamed.

"I'm sorry," Spike murmured in his ear and then a blanket of light descended over his vision.

*****

Rupert blinked, wondering why he was face down on the ground. He groaned, his body aching in more ways then he could account for, and the weight on his back didn't bode well. The memories came rushing back. He'd gone to check out a lead on a Slayer. She was in an area that truly needed her help and... he'd been attacked. Had he been knocked out?

Rupert bucked against the weight, frantic to be free. It moved easily, sliding aside. He stood quickly, turning to find... Spike.

"What... what are you doing here?" He wrinkled his forehead--which felt odd, maybe swollen?--and tried to understand why everything seemed so sharp. He wasn't wearing his glasses...

"Rupert?" Spike's face was blood-covered, scratches that looked deep marring his beauty. Rupert closed the distance between them as if in a fog, his hand rising to touch the mutilated flesh.

The blood smelled... enticing.

Rupert pulled his hand back, stumbling away and slipping on the wet concrete, landing on his ass. His hand rose automatically to his face, encountering ridges.

"Oh, god!" The memories poured in, drowning him in the smell and taste of blood. "Spike, please, oh god." He rose to his knees, staring at the ground, at the slightly pink rainwater that ran from his hands. "No... please, no..."

Spike was by his side, wrapping him in protective arms.

"I... I killed them. I... I threw his body away as if it was garbage and... oh, god." Rupert broke at the memory of the young man, tears hot on his cheeks. "I killed him because he looked like you." Rupert wept, his body rocking in time with his sobs.

*****

Spike looked to Andrew and Wesley, nodding his head toward the mouth of the alley. Neither moved right away, leaning on each other and looking at Rupert with worried eyes. Then they turned, holding one another up as they left.

"Rupert?"

"I can still... I can taste them on my tongue." Rupert stared at nothing, his now-green eyes wide. "I remember... oh, no... Every detail is... so fresh in my head."

"They blur with time, love." Spike laid his head against Rupert's shoulder. "I promise you at least that much. They blur with time."

The two sat, clinging to one another, letting the rain wash them clean, on the outside.