Tara did come the next night. And the next. And the next.

His burns healed slowly, for a vampire at least, but after a few days he only had raw patches on his chest and hands. Tara left him a bottle of untreated gel to use at his discretion. The rapid healing tended to itch more than hurt, but the aloe helped with both.

The routine was nice. The slayer hadn’t been letting Dawn go out as often, so her visits to the crypt became rare. Spike countered the restriction by donning a tarp and spending some of his afternoons at the Summers’ household. Clem left to visit some relatives, so Tara became his only crypt guest.

The witch was quickly taking over a spacious corner of the vampire’s heart. Her kind smiles and soft words reminded him of Joyce and his own, long-dead mother. There was very little he would not have done for her.

That was why the following Wednesday, when she asked him to bring Meret to the Magic Box, he agreed despite his reservations. That did not mean, however, that he went quietly.

*****

“Spike, they already know about her. There’s no need to worry like this,” Tara said, for at least the thirteenth time during their walk to the Magic Box.

“Not worried. ‘Worried’ implies that I care what those blighters think.” Spike’s front of indifference would have been much more effective had he not spent the entire walk fidgeting endlessly with the wrappings on the package he carried and coming up with excuses to send the little coatl back to the crypt. Also, there was always his other “weakness.”

“Well, whatever it is you aren’t feeling is sending Meret into a frenzy.”

To that, Spike scowled. He tried to reassure the little serpent, but it was difficult when his own stomach was tying itself in knots. Meret had taken her usual perch across the vampire’s shoulders, but instead of her normal loose coil, she had wrapped herself in a stranglehold around his neck. Not that he blamed her.

One of ’em lays a hand on her, ’ll rip them to shreds, chip or no.

His angry strides carried him swiftly through the streets of Sunnydale. Tara had to trot just to keep up with him.

When the tiny bells rang to announce their arrival at the Magic Box, the only other sound was winded gasping from Tara. Wide-eyed stares pinned him from all sides. Spike felt naked, exposed. His coat, his trademark armor and banner, remained in the crypt, burned and ragged from its last encounter. All brittle dignity and bristling defensiveness, he stood before them, arms crossed, and waited for their reaction.

He did not have long to wait.

“Oh my god, do you know how much we could charge for those feathers!” Anya exclaimed. That earned a wry look from the watcher. The former vengeance demon hurried over to the vampire to study the coatl more closely. Spike could feel Meret trembling as she further tightened her grip on his throat.

Xander came to stand behind his fiancé. “So this is what all the fuss was about? Looks like it would make some redneck a nice pair of boots.”

Everyone in the room tensed as a threatening growl escaped from Spike’s throat, his eyes flashing with hints of gold. Meret joined his warning with a low hiss of her own. He would have backed out of the door had Tara not blocked his path. The witch placed a calming hand on his arm and shot a withering glare at Xander, who had the decency to look embarrassed. He muttered something about vampires not being able to take a joke before falling silent again.

The tension was broken when Giles cleared his throat. “Yes, well, now that we’re all here, did you bring the cross, Spike?” When the vampire nodded curtly, he continued, “Well then, may we see it?” His voice was all pleasantness on the surface, but a thread of impatience sharpened his words.

Spike brushed past Anya and Xander and strode to the research table. Ignoring the sideways glances aimed at his neck, he pulled out the pair of work gloves he had crammed in his back pocket and put them on before going to work at the knots. The knots and fabric soon gave way to reveal the gold cross, jewels glittering under the shop’s fluorescent lights. Everyone moved in close to see.

The first comment came from Anya, of course. “I’m not paying him for that!”

“Looks kinda tacky. Does Buffy have to wear it?” was Dawn’s contribution.

“Ooo, the Buffster gets to sport some serious bling. I bet I could string up a big clock to go with it.” Leave it to Xander to cheapen the find with bad fashion jokes.

“No, she only needs the ruby. It can be placed in any number of other fittings, or carried loose if she so desires,” was Giles’ response. “The stone has a large area of effect, so anyone nearby will be protected from all manner of elemental attacks.”

The slayer herself remained unmoved.

“Look Rupes, ‘ve been thinking,” Spike said, diplomatically ignoring the derisive snort from Xander, “I know that the shop can’t foot the bill under our agreement, but I think I know a way that makes us all walk away happy. Interested?” When the watcher nodded cautiously, he continued. “If the Council’ll provide another bauble to replace the ruby here, and if they’re willing to put it up at Sotheby’s or the like in the shop’s name, I say let the slayer have the rock with no other strings attached. Toss ‘em some line about how your ‘supplier’ won’t part with it any other way. I get my cut, you get yours, and the Council of Wankers gets buggered out of some dosh.”

Giles’ lips twitched. Spike could have sworn the watcher was on the verge of smiling.

Any further response went unheard though, because a disorienting wave suddenly overcame Spike. He staggered to his knees next to the table, catching his head in both hands as the world around him spun. He could feel spidery tendrils of magic crawling over his body and into his skull. He was barely aware of Meret, who had taken flight in panic.

“Spike, what is it?” someone said, but he was too far-gone to recognize the voice.

“Spell,” he rasped out. “Someone’s casting a…” and with that, the vampire sank into darkness.

*****

Voices were the first thing he noticed. He did not recognize any of them, which was cause for alarm.

Nothing hurts. OK, where am I?

He sniffed the air.

Wait, why did I just do that?

His eyes opened, and he found himself staring at the underside of a wooden table. He sat up cautiously and slid out from under the piece of furniture. There were people sitting and standing around the room, talking in low, upset voices. Two young women, a redhead and a blonde, were seated at the table. Another blonde and a very young brunette were standing away from the group, near a bookshelf with the strangest things on it. In fact, the entire room seemed to be filled with all manner of odd objects and old books. Three more people stood next to a glass counter with a cash register on it.

Right, weird store. I get that.

The first of the trio was an older man with a British accent who was cleaning his glasses furiously. The younger man sported a mop of dark brown hair and seemed on the edge of either hitting someone or crying. The last of the three, another blonde woman, just looked confused.

What the bloody hell is going on?

The nervous man by the counter was the first to notice him. “You’re awake! Who are you?”

“I’m… I…” Who am I?! “Who the hell are you? All of you people!” he countered.

To that, the young man shuffled around a little, opening and closing his mouth ineffectually.

“No one knows.” The man whirled around to face the speaker, the blond woman standing next to the bookshelf. She had an air of command about her, despite her small size.

That one’s a looker.

“Oh oh oh! IDs!” cried the redhead. After receiving a roomful of blank stares, she dug around in one of the bags on the table before waving a wallet around. When she opened it, she gave a triumphant shout. “My name’s Willow Rosenberg!”

Everyone followed her example. The man emptied his pockets on the table, but had little to show for his efforts. A half-full pack of cigarettes, a silver lighter, a sharpened piece of wood, and a key ring were all he had to show for his efforts.

Could definitely use a fag about now. Wait, ‘fag?’

“Well, I smoke and I think I’m British,” he announced.

“My name is Tara Maclay, and I go to the University of California at Sunnydale,” added the blonde at the table.

“Me too!” The redhead, Willow, gestured excitedly. “We must be classmates or something.” Tara nodded slightly, before letting her hair fall in front of her face, obviously very shy and nervous.

In turn, everyone announced his or her findings. The older man’s name was Rupert Giles and papers under the counter said that he and Anya Jenkins, the blonde who had been standing with him, owned the store, which was called the Magic Box. The young man was named Alexander Harris, which he promptly shortened to Alex. Anya soon discovered the large diamond gracing her left ring finger and immediately started sizing up the men in the room. The young brunette by the bookshelves could not find a full name, but her necklace provided the moniker Dawn in golden script. The last woman remained nameless.

“So, what should we call you?” asked Dawn.

The blonde thought for a moment. “Joan,” she finally answered.

“That’s so lame! If I got to pick out a name, it would be something cool like Starr or Cleopatra or Duchess Maryan of Glencastle. ‘Joan’ is so… normal,” responded Dawn.

“Well, I feel like a Joan,” the blonde snapped irritably. The two looked at one another for a moment. “Sisters?” Joan finally asked.

Dawn smiled and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What about Billy over there?” Joan asked.

It took the man standing by the table a moment to realize that she was talking about him. “Billy?”

“Yeah, you look kind of like Billy Idol, what with the hair and the black clothes. The accent too,” she continued. “Okay, that’s just weird. How come I know all about eighties punk rockers, but not my own name?”

“Billy” looked around for some reflective surface. A large polished platter, silver and smooth, stood on one of the bookshelves behind the table. He walked over and picked it up. What he saw made him freeze.

“What’s wrong?” the redhead asked.

I can’t see myself. Why can’t I see myself?

“Look at that and tell me what you see,” he said, holding the plate out to her.

The redhead took the offered platter and looked at it. “Huh, I wonder if that’s my real hair color,” she mused before handing the plate back to him. “What’s the deal?”

Nerveless fingers grasped the silver plate. “I don’t… I mean I can’t… I can’t see myself!” the words finally came out in a rush.

“You wha’ huh?” said Joan, walking over to look at the platter, Dawn following close behind.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” added Willow.

Their sudden gathering drew the attention of the three behind the counter. “What is all the trouble?” asked Rupert.

“Billy here doesn’t have a reflection!” said Joan. Soon everyone except Tara was crowded around the man in question.

“OK,” said Willow. “We’re in a freaky magic store or something, maybe there’s some trick to the plate.” She rummaged around in her bag for a moment. “Here, try this.” She offered him a compact.

Billy opened the make-up case slowly and looked into the tiny mirror. Nothing.

What am I?

Willow stood there for a second, head cocked to one side. “You look solid enough.” She poked him in the arm. “Feel solid. Weird.”

Dawn and Anya poked him in the arm too, and Joan took the mirror away to look at it.

Despite his own rising panic, their treatment set Billy on edge. “I am not a lab rat!” he snapped, pulling away and wrapping his arms tightly around his chest like a shield.

“I didn’t mean…” started the redhead.

“Sorry,” added Dawn meekly.

“This is all very strange, ah, Billy. I’m sure we can figure out what is going on with all of us, but without all the prodding,” said Rupert, casting a sharp eye over the younger people. Billy nodded, but did not move from his defensive stance.

The woman at the table, Tara, spoke up hesitantly. “I, um,” she bowed her head again.

“What is it, my dear?” Rupert asked kindly.

The shy girl looked up at him tentatively. “Dddoes anyone else feel something, like, um, in their heads?”

Each person looked furtively at the others. “Now that you mention it, yeah. I would‘ve thought it was just me if you hadn’t brought it up,” Billy offered.

The others nodded as well. Most were curious, others worried, but none seemed comfortable with the sensation. To Billy, it only added to his own feelings of fright and confusion. He could only guess that the others were sensing the same thing.

A strange odor came to Billy’s nose. Dark and musty, it smelled of old graves and dried blood. He lifted his head and inhaled deeply.

“What are you doing?” Anya asked.

“Something’s here,” replied Billy. “I can smell it.”

“That’s impossible, and kind of gross,” commented Alex.

“Yeah, and I don’t cast a reflection. Now what’s impossible?” snapped Billy. “I really think we should be leaving.”

“Why? What do you smell?” asked Joan.

“Death.”