"So you went in without waiting for backup?" Bruno Dante demanded for the fifth time.

Jake saved Sara from having to answer the question again. "The suspects would have been long gone by the time backup got there."

"Uh-huh." Dante was unconvinced. "You did a swell job of keeping that from happening, Pets-ini."

Sara gritted her teeth at his habitual mispronunciation of her name. She stifled the urge to strangle him and sat there in silence as Dante paused at the window. "They ID the victim yet?"

"Matthew Rickman. Seems he owned the place." Dante's scowl faded, to Sara's surprise. "Captain?"

Dante looked thoughtful. "Rickman, huh?" His mood was calm all of a sudden. "This is still your collar - but if you screw up again, I'm pulling both of you off the case." That sort of threat usually signaled the end of the interrogation, so Sara got to her feet and headed out of the office. Jake followed, but Dante stopped him. "She's getting off easy. Rickman and I go way back, and I'm not exactly sorry to see him go."

Jake stiffened, the muscles in his jaw working as he tried to hide his distaste. "So, what? You want us to drop this case?"

"The hell you will. I want this sicko's head on a platter. Then we can talk about your... initiation." He patted Jake on the shoulder and walked back into his office.

Jake shuddered before following his partner through the maze of desks, shaking his head. Just a few more weeks, and I can nail that son of a bitch. Just a few more weeks...

The phone picked up on the third ring. "Talismaniac."

"Gabe, where the hell have you been?"

It took Gabriel Bowman a minute to place the voice on the other end of the line. It wasn't easy since the caller was obviously using a payphone. "Bryan? God, you sound like my mom."

Bryan ignored the complaint. "I've been trying to get a hold of you all day. There's some weird shit going on here."

The cold medication Gabe had taken was kicking in, and he yawned. "When isn't there?"

"Ed didn't show up for work today. Didn't even call."

That revelation snapped Gabriel back to attention. "Wait. Your boss, Ed? Ed, the guy you said needs surgery to get the stick out of his ass?"

"Yeah, and it gets better." Bryan shifted his grip on the receiver. "I passed by his place on the way up to Rhiannon's, and it's blocked off by police tape. Cops wandering all over the place. I get the feeling Ed's not coming back to work."

"I thought you always wanted him to disappear," Gabriel said without thinking, then flinched. "I'm sorry. That was the cold medication talking."

"Something bad's going on, Gabe. Something serious. I'd talk to the cops, but I'm not exactly getting a good vibe from the guys at the scene."

Struggling to think through the medication, Gabriel pulled out a pen and a piece of paper. "Okay, look, I might know someone who can help. Can it wait til tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? I've been trying to get a hold of you since two."

"I unplugged the phone. It's hard enough to deal with customers when you can't stop coughing. I just got fed up and yanked the cord out."

Bryan sighed. "Meet me at McCleary House around eight."

Gabriel scribbled it down. "McCleary House. Eight a.m. Why there?"

"Got to make a stop. Need to check on someone."

"Another damsel in distress?" Gabe grinned. "You need to get a hobby."

"They don't call me Robin Hood for nothing. You gonna be conscious by eight?"

"I'll let you know tomorrow."

"Whatever. See you then. You better not be contagious."

Gabriel hung up the phone and stared blearily around the small warehouse he used as a shop. There hadn't been any customers for a few hours now, but it was only eight p.m. And usually the more interesting customers - those who knew what they were looking for and might actually buy stuff - came in after dark. In the past month, the amount of walk-ins had tripled, even with his policy of not doing business with total strangers. Friends of friends had been popping by in droves lately.

But then another coughing fit seized him, and his priorities abruptly changed. Gabriel grabbed his keys. The interesting customers would have to wait.

Sunset.

As the sun retreated beneath the horizon, the shadows rushed in, stretching out to cover the space that the sunlight had vacated. Normally, Ian welcomed the rainbow-hued sunset, for its beauty as well as the fact that darkness was his element. He worked best in the shadows, hidden from the bright light's glare. But now, sunset was making his job a bit more difficult.

The man he'd been tracking tended to stick strictly to the shadows, avoiding the sunlight at any cost. Ian hadn't noticed that at first - since it was a tendency he often favored - but it had become gradually apparent. But it was a moot point now, since the man was going down into the subway. Ian waited a moment before following.

There were a few dozen people standing at the platform as the F train screeched to a halt, but Ian didn't see the blond man anywhere. He happened to glance down the track in the direction the train had come, just in time to see the figure disappearing into the darkness.

He was aware of curious eyes watching him, although the majority of the crowd paid him no mind - it was New York, after all. A small child was studying him as she hung on to her mother's arm. She glanced away and back again, and in that instant he had already slipped into the darkness of the subway tunnel.

The blond had gained some distance, but Ian wasted no time in closing the gap. Now that stealth was no longer an option - it was highly unlikely that his prey didn't realize he was being pursued - he could sacrifice it for speed.

Ian thought he was gaining, but he couldn't entirely be sure. The other man's footsteps were becoming louder as his feet pounded against the tracks, and Ian could hear a muttered curse - but he couldn't pick up on a heartbeat. Nor could he hear the labored breathing that should have come with the territory. He couldn't hear the blond man breathing at all. But as he rounded the corner, he spotted his prey directly ahead, only twenty feet away. Before Ian could react to that, however, he suddenly picked up on a rushing sound, a screeching, rumbling noise that could only mean one thing.

The next train on this line was running a few minutes early.

He'd been so focused on the missing breath that he hadn't noticed it earlier. Ian checked his speed as a light shone around the corner, illuminating the dark tunnel. But the blond cursed and ran right toward the train, ignoring the horn as the driver tried to brake. He stopped and crouched at a point on the track and started yanking at something on the tracks.

The train was almost on top of him, and unable to stop. An unseen hatch opened, and just as the train reached him, he dropped through the floor. Ian leapt across the tunnel, flattening himself against the wall as the train rushed by.

Once it was past, Ian dropped soundlessly onto the tracks, his dark clothing momentarily making him look like just another shifting shadow. His searching fingers soon closed around a small handle. He tugged at it, without success. Surprised, Ian put all his strength into it, and the handle pulled up an inch. There was a grinding sound, and Ian let go as the handle receded back into its slot and a hatch slid open, revealing a narrow opening just wide enough for him to fit through.

Ian slowly lowered himself into the opening, both hands gripping the sides of the opening to prevent the hatch from sliding closed again. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized that there were six different tunnels leading away, and his enhanced senses could pick up no clues as to which passage the blond man had taken.

He hung there for a few seconds, debating the wisdom of dropping to the floor and choosing a tunnel at random.

~All I wanted was to get dead drunk.~

Ian thought about it, then slowly pulled himself back up through the hatch, which slid shut behind him. Direct pursuit was out of the question, and if he made an error he would not be able to keep his master's schedule. There were other ways to seek out one's prey.

He would just have to be patient.

"This doesn't make any sense," Willow Rosenberg said as she stared at the book in her lap.

Giles looked up from the inventory he was working on. Anya had gone to eat dinner, and Willow had offered to skim over the remaining texts so Giles could watch the shop. Fortunately, business was slow at the Magic Box. "What's this?"

Willow brought the book over to the counter so that he could see. "There's only fragments of passages here. Just the beginnings, and then they break off with some sort of weird notation and a new one starts. I can't figure out where they pick up again."

"These notations look familiar," Giles observed, tapping a spot on the page thoughtfully. "Have you found any other books like this?"

"No, but I haven't made it through all of them yet." She went back to the table and picked up the small stack of books that they had yet to peruse. Giles took a look at the three remaining books, selecting one that had similar binding and flipping through it. "Can I ask you a question?"

Giles looked up, his finger poised on a passage. "Of course?"

"Giles, why are we doing this?" He looked at her, confused, unable to see what was wrong. Unable to see how he was ignoring reality. The dam burst, and all the things Willow had been trying not to say came flooding forth. "Buffy's been gone for two months now. Now Dawn's gone, and we haven't had any word on her. Anya's been more annoying than usual, Tara nearly got killed, and you're just sitting here poring over a bunch of books! Why?"

"There's more to it than that." Giles glanced at the clock. "If I tell you this, you must promise to keep it to yourself."

"Of course."

"There's a prophecy about to occur, and Edward - a colleague of mine from the Council - sent me some materials on it. I believe it may affect Dawn."

Willow frowned. "I don't get it. Glory's gone, Giles."

"But Dawn - the Key - is still here." Giles paused to clean his glasses. "Willow, the man who sent me these books figured out what she is."

"What??" Willow jerked back, horrified. "They're not going to try to take her away--"

Giles held up a hand, shaking his head. "No. The Council themselves remain ignorant, thank God. Edward retired several years ago after having a few disagreements with his brother, and hasn't spoken to him since. They practically hate each other."

"But how do you know he's not going to tell the Council?"

Giles blinked, then realized he'd left something out. "Edward is Quentin Travers' younger brother. He's too sensible to turn her over, and besides, he wouldn't give Quentin the satisfaction."

He lined up the two open books side by side on the counter. "Edward insists that this prophecy has something to do with the Key, but I'm afraid I haven't gotten to that yet. He's only been able to determine two specific facts from this prophecy: one, that it will occur on the night of the summer solstice, and two, that it involves the unleashing of dark power."

"The summer solstice is in two days, Giles."

"I know that, Willow." Giles flipped through one of the books until they were both open to the same page. "As for your earlier concern, Spike did inform us that he was still alive earlier this afternoon. He's apparently tracked Dawn to New York City."

"Dawnie's in New York?" Willow asked. "How did she get that far?"

"Considering the conniption that Anya had when she discovered money missing from the register, I'd say she had a considerable amount of funds at her disposal." Giles sighed. "I should be angry at her, but I'm not. She honestly thought she was protecting us by leaving."

Willow nodded, looking down at the floor. "I tried to tell her it was okay, but she wouldn't listen. I should have seen it coming."

Giles put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. How is Tara doing?"

"She's going to need stitches, but she'll be out next week." Willow looked up. "It was so close - just a few more inches and that demon might have killed her. Too close."

They stood there for a moment in silence, remembering the incident that had set Dawn off. A cult of Pahk'la demons had attempted to kidnap Dawn, and Tara had managed to stall them with a protection spell just long enough for Spike and Willow to get there and fight them off. Unfortunately, Tara's spell had only enough power to protect Dawn, and Tara was seriously injured by the demons. Willow had been so infuriated that she'd fried two Pahk'la on the spot, and had a terrible headache for days afterwards. Dawn had come out of the whole incident convinced that her very presence was endangering them all, and had taken off two days later.

Giles broke the tableau, focusing on the books again. "Of course. Are there any other books in the shipment with this sort of binding? Or written in this format, perhaps?"

"I don't think so." Willow went back to the table, examining the stacks of books and flipping through them in turn. "I don't see any others. Why?"

"These two books are part of a collection of three," Giles replied. "They're written in Trionic. All three books are incomplete without the other two: a passage begins in one book, continues in another, and concludes in the third. The notations below each fragment," here he pointed at a notation in the first book, "tell you where the passage continues in the next book. But the third book is missing."

"Well, can't you just extrapolate from what you have?" Willow asked. "If it's just the endings that are missing--"

"It doesn't work that way. The passages have more than three sections. The cycle repeats itself several times. Whole chunks are missing, some of them pivotal." Giles shut the book he was reading with a sigh. "I can't imagine how Edward could have failed to send me the third."

"I could do some snooping on the Net," Willow said. "See if anything weird's been happening in New York." Giles was glaring at the books in frustration. "Maybe you should call it a day."

Giles nodded. "I suppose so." Willow smiled and headed out of the shop.

As soon as Anya returned, he went back to reading.

The dream started the second Sara's head hit the pillow.

She was standing in a long, straight hallway, with a high vaulted ceiling and a polished marble floor. For all its elegance, the hall was unadorned, the walls and floor in shades of gray. The corridor did not branch off or turn, but extended before and behind her in a straight line that had no beginning and had no end. An infinite series of doors were set into the walls, unmarked and identical sentries lining a path that had no end.

Without even thinking about it, Sara started down the hallway, bypassing door after door. After a minute or two, it seemed as though nothing had changed; the doors were the same, the lighting was the same, and she still could not see to the end. But a gnawing sense of urgency nudged her forward, and Sara broke into a run. Still the scenery did not change; it was as if she was running in place.

~Little Miss Muffet~

The singsong voice was almost a whisper, yet it echoed down the corridor. Sara stopped, spinning around to find the source of the voice. "Who's there?"

No answer. Big surprise. Sara took a deep breath and looked around. The feeling of impending danger had not subsided. She tried the handle of the nearest door. It didn't budge. She tried another, and then another.

~Sat on a tuffet~

She turned to look down the hall, and for a second she spied the girl, her blue eyes open wide in terror, silently screaming for help. Sara blinked, and she was gone. The danger was becoming nearer; she could just see the darkness at the edges of her vision. Whatever was stalking her - whatever wanted the girl - was getting closer.

Sara tried a door, then another. She rounded on the next door - and stopped. This one was not unmarked. There was a symbol painted on the wood - two symbols, one painted over the other. The blue symbol in the background was bowl-shaped, a single curved line with the ends turned down. Painted over it was a red circle with a horizontal line bisecting it in the center. Whatever it meant, Sara didn't know, but it chilled her. She grabbed the handle and pulled.

~Eating of curds and whey~

The door opened wide, and the explosion of cold air that gushed forth nearly knocked Sara to the floor. It was all she could do to grip the sides of the doorframe and keep from getting blown away. A second or two passed, and the wind died down slightly, just enough for Sara to stagger inside, holding a hand before her face to shield her from the wind. She heard the door slam behind her, but kept walking, moving towards a bright golden light up ahead.

As she got closer, the light flared, then dimmed enough for her to see the girl standing in its midst, wearing what looked like some kind of medieval dress. Her hands and feet were bound and her hair was blowing wildly in all directions. Ignoring the harsh wind and the bright light, Sara started running again, desperate to get to the girl before *it* did.

~There came a spider~

The girl was oblivious to her presence as Sara rushed up, only turning to see her as Sara reached for the bonds on her wrists. She looked at Sara not with relief, but with dismay and terror. "You shouldn't have come. You'll die. They all do."

"What?" Sara asked. Then she realized that the terror in the girl's eyes was not because of her.

~And sat down beside her~

It was because of what was behind her.

Sara spun in time to catch a glimpse of teeth and claws as the black thing leapt for her throat.

~And frightened Miss Muffet away...~

Sara sat bolt upright in bed, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of her apartment. It was barely two a.m. Jake's theory - that a good night's sleep would help them think more clearly - was not exactly working for her. If he showed up for work chipper, she was going to kill him.

She shot the Witchblade a glare before flopping back down again.

Across the city, Dawn woke up screaming.

Fortunately for Jake, he didn't have a chance to give Sara a chipper greeting the next morning. Before he could open his mouth and tempt fate, Sara's phone rang. "Pezzini."

"Hey, Pez, it's Vick. Got some lab results back for you."

"Be there in a few." She hung up the phone. "Vicky's got something for us."

"All right." Jake turned to go, but Sara grabbed the collar of his jacket. "Hold it, rookie. We're not going anywhere until I get some coffee."

Twenty minutes and a near-brush with coffee burns later, they arrived at the morgue. Vicky Po was putting away equipment as they walked in. "I've got good news and I've got bad news."

Sara yawned, holding the steaming coffee mug up to her face as if the smell would keep her awake. "Let's get the bad news out of the way first."

Jake frowned, concerned. "Bad night?"

"No worse than usual, Jake." She sniffed at the coffee cautiously. "Caffeine's kicking in, though. Show us what you've got, Vick."

"Got the lab results back, and the bad news is that while the hairs you found resemble some sort of animal hair, the fibers don't match that of any kind of animal that could have done this. Canine, feline, lupine, you name it."

"What about weasel?" Jake asked. As Sara stifled a laugh and Vicky looked at him curiously, he grinned. "Private joke."

"Uh-huh. Pretty much ruled rodents of every species out too. But there were some interesting things in the autopsy. Let me show you." To Jake and Sara's immense relief, she opened a file cabinet and retrieved a folder, pulling out a pair of color photos. "I'd show you the bodies, but it's a little early in the morning to risk asphyxiation."

The two photos were close-ups of the victim's teeth. "This one's Edward Travers," Vicky informed them, "and this one's Cassandra Dalton. Note the marked difference in dental work."

Jake ignored the joke, peering at the photos. "What are those?" he asked, pointing at the photos in turn. "Those blackish things stuck in the teeth."

"Hey," Vicky commented. "The rookie's getting observant for once." As Sara smirked and Jake sighed, she got back to business, flipping through test results. "It appears that both victims had plant remains in their teeth and down their throats. I did some tests, and it's the same exact plant: Aconitum noveboracense."

She looked up to see two identical expressions of confusion. "Northern wild monkshood. It's pretty rare; only been found in four states, including New York. And it's fairly poisonous."

"What, you're saying poison killed them?" Sara asked skeptically.

"Not the main cause of death." Vicky set down the test results and retrieved a plastic bag containing what looked like the skeleton of a small plant, its stem, blossoms and leaves wilted and blackened by decay. "It appears that in both cases, a sprig was jammed down the victim's throat. This one was found in Cassandra Dalton."

"Before or after the victims were mauled?"

"That's what I don't get," Vicky replied. "Most of the signs indicate that the plant was inserted after the victim was murdered, but the bits in the teeth wouldn't be there unless the victim was able to close his or her jaw against it. But I seriously doubt it was intended as a cause of death."

"So, what?" Jake asked. "Some kind of calling card?"

Sara peered at the withered husk that had once been a flower, thinking. Unbidden, fragments of memory rose to the surface, connecting in an odd pattern. The hooded trio from the other night. The symbols tattooed on the leader's arms, dark and spidery like the dead plant. The hooded Druid standing over Iona, who became a mere human when the cowl was pulled back. Hoods hiding their faces. Monkshood.

"No," she said aloud, realizing. "Thanks, Vick. Let us know if anything else turns up."

Jake followed her down the hall, recognizing the determined stride that meant his partner was on to something. "What's up, Pez?"

"The bites on the arms. The plant in the throat. It's intentional, ritualistic even."

"What, another Brian Reilly?"

Sara rubbed her wrist absently. "Or worse."

"Bryan, she can't stay here."

The words made Dawn stop short at the top of the stairs. She clutched the banister desperately to keep from falling forward. Instead, she crouched on the steps, peering through the banister at the scene in the foyer below. She could see Iona standing there, talking to Bryan and a third person whose back was to Dawn.

To his credit, Bryan looked pissed off. "It's been one night. Christ, Iona--" Iona cleared her throat loudly, and Bryan flinched. "Sorry. Look, she can't be all that much trouble."

"Dawn isn't any trouble at all. She's the sweetest thing to pass through these doors."

The third person coughed a few times before regaining his voice. "This the girl you talked to yesterday?"

"Yeah." Bryan turned back to Iona. "So why kick her out?"

"I'm not kicking her out," Iona insisted so fervently that Dawn couldn't entirely suppress a flicker of hope. "Social Services is sending someone over tomorrow to look over a case file and do a routine inspection. They were supposed to do it next week, but something came up."

"You're gonna hand her off to the vultures?" Bryan demanded.

"They're not going to give me much of a choice in the matter." Iona let out a deep sigh and ran her hands through her blond hair in frustration. "Look, Bryan, I wasn't sure about this in the first place."

"Aw, come on, we've been over this!"

Dawn pressed her face between the bars of the railing and closed her eyes as tears welled up. The cold polished wood felt like prison bars about to trap her again. It was really her own fault, anyway; she'd allowed herself to feel safe, to feel normal again. Now she would have to take off before someone else could get hurt. Heck, Social Services might decide that this was grounds to take her away from Giles and stick her with a foster family. It wasn't as if her dad would reappear from wherever he'd vanished to.

"I heard her screaming last night. Whatever she's gone through, Social Services is not going to help. I just don't want Dawn here with that social worker sniffing around."

Surprised, Dawn opened her eyes. What was this? Bryan stared at Iona, stunned into silence.

The third guy spoke first. "I'm confused."

"Yeah, me too." Bryan shoved his hands in his pockets. "You want us to hide her from Social Services? Who are you and what'd you do with the woman who preaches to everyone she meets and tells us to wash behind our ears and tell the truth?"

"I stowed her in the broom closet." Iona rubbed her eyes. "Besides, I know the woman they're sending, and I wouldn't trust her to take care of a pet rock."

"Can't be that bad," the third guy said.

"Gabriel, you haven't met her." Iona folded her arms. "Dawn needs time to work through whatever's got her so scared, and the descending harpy won't make that easy."

Dawn shifted her weight and winced at the audible creak. As Iona looked up, Dawn hopped to her feet, trying to look as though she was just coming downstairs and hadn't eavesdropped on the conversation. "Hey, what's going on?" she asked, trying to sound casual as she descended.

Neither Bryan nor Iona seemed to buy it. Gabriel was standing out of her line of vision, so she couldn't gauge his reaction. "Anyone ever teach you not to listen in on conversations?" Bryan asked, smirking.

"They tried," Dawn replied. She gripped the railing unconsciously, trying to hide her nervousness. She certainly didn't want to deal with Social Services - but she didn't want to leave, period. For the first time in days, she'd felt safe again, and even if that wasn't the case, she wanted to keep feeling that way.

"Look, um," she added, coming down into the foyer, "you don't want me tagging along all day. I know you guys have stuff to do."

Bryan shrugged. "I don't mind." He turned to his friend. "Gabe?"

Gabriel turned, and Dawn got her first good look at him. She blinked, trying even harder to maintain her composure. While Bryan's behavior reminded her of Xander, Gabriel looked a lot like Xander, except he was actually cuter. "We've got to make a few stops, but I'm okay with it." "If you don't mind being dragged along--" Brian began.

"Okay," Dawn said quickly, her attention still fixed on Gabe.

Bryan looked perplexed, but didn't ask. The only one who seemed to have a clue was Iona, who was trying to conceal a smile. "What sort of stops are we talking about here?"

"Nothing major," Gabriel assured her. "I got to go pick up something from the shop, and Bryan's got to go down to the precinct to talk to somebody."

Iona looked at Bryan suspiciously as she walked the three to the door. "What did you do now?"

Bryan blinked innocently. "Nothing."

Gabriel chuckled as they filed outside. "Nothing they can prove, anyway,"

"Shut up."

Leon had never been very good with names. Nine times out of ten, his brain refused to attach a person's real name with the face in memory. He was more likely to recall the private nicknames he gave people, based on appearance, mannerisms, attitude, or overall personality. Some were private for very good reasons.

Right now, "Number Two" was pacing.

He'd been doing that for the past few minutes in silence, digesting what his three enforcers had just told him. He was not a quiet man by nature, and had a flair for the dramatic, especially when it pertained to causing mayhem. But now he was simply pacing the length of the study, his gaze focused on the faux Oriental rug. His hands were clasped behind him, his mouth was pressed in a thin line, and he was completely bereft of his usual animation. He wasn't an impressive figure of a man, but he was a man who just happened to be the right hand of the demon they were bound to work for. And he had an even more malicious imagination than his supervisor.

This did not look good at all.

Leon turned away from his study of the dark lines etched on his arms to glance at the other two standing at attention. Shorty was shifting from foot to foot, wringing his hands anxiously. He was nervous, and rightly so; the whole situation was arguably the trigger-happy little rodent's fault. He even looked like a rat, although that might be owing in part to his heritage. If any of them were about to face Number Two's wrath, Shorty was soon to be a smear on the lovely new rug.

Beside him, Echo - whose name he could actually remember - stood with her hands folded and her head bowed, like the other two. But unlike them, she was calm, serene. As usual, she was the least likely to receive any sort of hell from their employer. As usual, she had been the one to bail them out of the mess that Shorty's stupidity had gotten them into. Of the three of them, she was Number Two's favorite. It wasn't owing to her looks; she was the plainest-looking female of any species, demon or human, that Leon had ever met. It wasn't owing to her sparkling personality, because she had none to speak of. It was mainly because she didn't talk back and usually didn't screw up. But she lacked the ability to think for herself, so Leon was in charge.

Number Two finally stopped pacing and turned to face them, his palms pressed together and a calm smile on his face. "So," he said, raking all three of them with his gaze. "We thought we were going to play Cops and Robbers for a little while, weren't we?"

"It wasn't my fault!" Shorty babbled frantically, his hands twitching as if searching for someone to point at. "That weasel Rickman was gonna go to the cops. What was I supposed to do, sit there and let him walk?"

"You could have stood there and let me wipe his memories," Leon offered. "Or Echo could have turned him into a toad. Would've been quieter and cleaner than shooting him in the head."

Echo coughed. "Weasel."

Leon blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Weasel," she repeated haughtily. "His aura wasn't conducive to a reptilian shape."

"Weasel, toad, salamander, whatever." Number Two was focusing purely on Shorty now. "Point is, you nearly blew the entire operation wide open."

"How was I supposed to know there were a couple of cops snooping around?"

Number Two nodded. "Point taken." He looked at Echo. "Turn him into a bloody ferret for all I care."

"Hey!" Shorty exclaimed as Echo turned, apparently to obey orders.

Leon cleared his throat, straightening up. As amusing as the exchange was, it wasn't helping. "Idiot minion ramblings side, Boss, we've got other setbacks to worry about." Echo turned back to attention, looking mildly disappointed. "Had to waste an Orb of Daphnis the other day on cleanup. The cops were milling around the crime scene, and I'll be damned if there wasn't a seer among them. Couldn't pinpoint who, but I made a quick psychic wipe before they could dredge up the memories."

He glared at Shorty. "So I wasn't exactly at my best when this one decided to go all Pulp Fiction on us."

"I said I was sorry!"

"No you didn't," Echo pointed out.

Leon steeled himself for the inevitable bickering match when Number Two, mercifully, stepped in. "Children, children, behave." He was toying with a pair of shriveled chicken feet that had been on the desk along with a number of arcane objects. "So the NYPD has noticed that something's afoot. Can't say I'm surprised, really. It's not as if this operation could go totally unnoticed. This isn't Sunnydale; the cops here actually have a few brain cells to rub together."

"So should we try to seek out that seer?" Leon suggested. "More cleanup?"

"Do you *know* how much a working Orb of Daphnis costs?" Number Two asked, proceeding to answer his own question. "Even more than an Orb of Thesulah, and that little bauble can restore souls." He leaned against the desk, the chicken feet dangling in his hand. "We really don't have the funds. As much as it pains me to say this, I suppose we'll have to be more discreet." He spat out the last word as though it really did cause him pain.

"I'll have a word with the Boss," he added, his lips curling in a sardonic smile. "He does have the final say."

Leon was about to add something, but hesitated as his attention was drawn to one corner of the room. The shadows by the bookcase seemed to be coalescing, the pool of blackness deepening as they did. "Speak of the demon."

Number Two stared fixedly at the dark shape in the corner, his gaze never leaving the shadowy form. "You've got your orders, then. Do try not to kill anyone else unless absolutely necessary."

That was their cue to get the hell out, and Leon didn't need to be told twice. Echo was already out the door. He bowed quickly in obeisance and hurried out, dragging Shorty along with him. Punishment by Number Two was bad enough, but he wasn't sticking around to get chewed out by the Boss himself.

Literally.

Dawn was fairly quiet on the trip downtown. She replied to personal questions with an economy of language - that is, as few words as possible without really answering the question. She wasn't playing the sullen teenager, though; Bryan couldn't pick up any resentment from her at all. The emotion that flared up most from time to time was foreboding and fear, the kind of apprehension that had you looking over your shoulder every few minutes. There was something else, too, but Bryan wisely left it alone. Gabriel was going to have to figure it out on his own.

So when Gabe led them into the converted warehouse that housed Talismaniac, her reaction surprised them both.

"Wow." Dawn took in the jumble of assorted artifacts, clearly impressed. "This is the kind of stuff you sell?"

"Just what the door says - Idols, Icons, Talismans." Gabriel moved behind the counter, hunting for something. He looked up as Dawn ran a finger over an ebony figurine of Kali. "Hey, Dawn?"

She yanked her hand away as if burned, clasping her hands behind her back. "I know. Don't touch."

"Nah, you can touch it - just wanted to warn you that it's not all one piece. It comes apart at the base." He was prevented from elaborating when the buzzer went off. "Man, what now?"

The woman at the door was in her mid-forties, a client that Gabe had completely forgotten about. "Hello, Gabe. You wouldn't happen to have that Ushabti I ordered?" At his blank look, she added, "The one you special-ordered for me last week? The Egyptian figurine?"

It took a second for Gabriel to make the connection. "Oh, yeah. Come on in, it's around here somewhere." He led her into the shop, casting around the immediate area. "Hell, I think I left it upstairs."

Before Bryan could make good his escape, he found himself being dragged up to the upper level to help Gabriel search for it. Dawn stayed downstairs to keep the customer company. "You don't have it, do you?" Bryan asked.

"I've got it somewhere, I just don't remember where," Gabe muttered, frantically searching the jumble. "That's a client who'll come back - but if I don't find her order, I'm gonna lose a good customer." He shoved an old bronze shield that was just a replica aside. "Where the hell is it?"

The shield hadn't been moved in a while, and it dislodged a small cloud of dust. Gabriel immediately fell prey to a violent coughing fit. "Are you okay?" Dawn called up.

"Fine!" Gabriel croaked out between coughs.

Bryan took the opportunity to literally shove his friend into an empty chair. "You sure you're okay?"

"Hell yeah. Should've heard me yesterday." The coughing abated, and Gabe retrieved a cough drop from his pocket. "It's still a pain dealing with customers like this, though. Especially the way business is going."

"Gabe, you can't keep doing this, and damn it, I sound like *my* Mom now," Bryan said, flinching at the thought. "Not without help."

"You're right. You do sound like your Mom."

"And you sound like my chain-smoking Grandma."

A familiar sound interrupted their conversation - the sound of a register opening. "Hey, guys?"

Both Gabe and Bryan peered over the railing to see Dawn behind the register. She was holding up a small figurine that she was about to box up - the one that they had been hunting for.

"Uh, right," Gabe answered, surprised as Dawn checked the customer's ID and ran the check through the machine. She carefully wrapped the figurine up and boxed it before handing the customer the box and a receipt.

Once the client was gone, the two young men shuffled downstairs, staring at Dawn. "You had special orders behind the counter," the girl explained. "That's how Giles - I mean, how my last boss did it sometimes."

Surprised, Gabriel coughed, but managed to get it under control before he could go off again. He glanced over at Bryan, who looked thoughtful. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Bryan grinned. "Sure, Brain, but if the plural of mouse is mice, wouldn't the plural of spouse be spice?"

Gabe turned back to Dawn. "You interested in a job?"

Ethan Rayne hated his new job.

He toyed with the chicken feet for a few moments, keeping his back to his current employer. "You realize that every time you feed, you leave a... distinct trail."

"It can't be helped." The voice was unpleasant, a combination of nails grating on chalkboard and a swarm of squealing vermin. "You were in charge of cleaning it up."

"Actually, no." Ethan finally turned to face the form lurking in the shadows. "You put the Three Stooges in charge of cleanup. Bloody lot of good that did. And you know I'm not your cleanup man; my talents lie in creating disaster, not sweeping it under the carpet."

He couldn't make out the demon's current form in the shadows, but he could hear its derisive snort. "True enough. But now there's a seer investigating us. Have they located the Erios Codex yet?"

"Not with the police sniffing around Travers' shop," Ethan muttered. "You really should have let the old fool be. The waitress was one thing; he's got a direct connection to us."

"I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. He had to be eliminated. And will you stop playing with the damned chicken feet?"

Ethan set the chicken feet down. "Touchy, aren't we?"

"I'm hungry. Watch yourself."

"Well, you knew what you were in for when you recruited me. You could have left me rotting in that cell. Not that the scenery isn't more pleasant here, but it's difficult balancing my geas to you with my allegiance to Janus."

A low growl cut off any further comments, and a hand grabbed him by the collar. "That geas was sealed by blood. I don't care how long you've worshipped Chaos, your debt to me comes first."

Ethan swallowed. "Would you mind? I rather like this shirt."

Ian stood at attention, patiently waiting for his employer to finish downloading the series of schematics. Even the fastest and most expensive Internet connection had its limits, something that Irons had commented on many times in the past.

The download completed, and Irons turned the laptop so that Ian could see it as well. The street map on his screen had a network of sewer lines highlighted - the section of the sewers that the old subway tunnels at that stop fed into. A series of white dots - locations on the map - were lit up as well. "Every drinking establishment with an entrance a few feet away from the sewer exits," Irons announced, smirking. "I suppose it goes without saying that this is an unusual request."

Nodding, Ian studied the map intently, hands clasped behind his back. A certain location caught his eye, and he paused, taking in the relative locations of streets. There was no name attached to the single dot on the screen, no landmarks, simply the names of streets to indicate its location. But that was all that he needed.

Irons noticed his concentration. "You've found it, then."

Ian's departure was the only response that was necessary.

"What a coincidence," Sara muttered dryly as she sifted through the stack of papers that had been unceremoniously dumped on her desk. "We're right in the middle of a case, and Dante suddenly realizes there's a ton of paperwork left over from the Bellamy case that we haven't had a chance to fill out yet. He's just going out of his way to make us miserable, isn't he?"

"He's been making everyone miserable lately," Jake observed. "Doubt it's personal."

Sara snorted. "Yeah, right." Before she could elaborate, the phone rang and she snatched it up. "Pezzini. Homicide."

"Hey, Pez. Got a minute?"

She straightened, surprised. "Gabriel? How did you get this number?"

"I got patched through by the guy up front." A series of coughs punctuated his sentence. "He got kind of tired of listening to me hacking up a lung. Pity angle works sometimes."

"I'm not surprised. You sound like hell." She sat back in her chair. "Is this a business call?"

"Actually, yeah. I'm doing a favor for a friend of mine. His boss kind of disappeared, and he saw the cops milling around the guy's place yesterday. They weren't exactly friendly, and he wanted to talk to someone in the know."

"Listen, Gabe, I can't--" Sara turned around, and hesitated when she saw Danny standing there. The ghost said nothing, but merely nodded. "You have a name for me? The boss, I mean."

"Yeah. Travers, uh..." There was a pause, and Sara could hear another voice in the background. "Ed Travers. Ring any bells?"

Sara's eyes widened, and she looked over at Jake, who was watching her curiously. "More like a fire alarm, since we're looking into that right now."

"You've got that case? Hang on a sec." Gabriel covered up the mouthpiece as he held a brief conversation with someone.

"What's going on?" Jake asked.

Sara glanced to Danny, but the ghost was already gone. "I think we might have a lead."

Gabe came back on the phone. "Okay, um, I've got to hold the fort around here--" He paused, coughing again. There was a scuffle and the sound of protests. "Aw, hell. Bryan wants to talk to you. Hold on a sec."

Jake opened his mouth to ask a question, but she signaled him to be quiet as a new voice spoke. "Hi, Detective Pezzini? Bryan, uh, Bryan Cornish."

"Speaking. What was that all about?"

"Sorry. Had to grab the phone before Gabe coughed up a lung." There was a pause, and she could hear Gabe saying something indignant. Another voice, this one female, chimed in, followed by more protests from Gabe. Bryan chuckled in spite of himself before turning back to the phone. "Hey, man, don't look at me. You hired her."

Sara got right to the point. "You worked for Mr. Travers?"

"Yeah, I'm assistant manager. Meaning a lot more hours for only a bit more cash, but I know the shop as well as Ed did. Which is probably the only reason he never fired my ass. Look, I don't know much, but I think there was something going on at work before all this happened. Think we could meet somewhere and talk?"

"You can come down to the station," Sara offered.

She could practically see him flinch at the thought. "Um, if most of the beat cops there are anything like the guys who were hanging out in front of Ed's place, I don't know about that."

"Hold on a sec." She covered the mouthpiece and turned to Jake. "You know who was handling clean-up at the crime scene last night?"

He thought about it for a second. "Riley, Stuart, and Orlinsky, I think. Why?"

"Figures." She turned back to the phone. "All right, fine. We'll meet elsewhere, but I'm bringing my partner." She grabbed a notepad and scribbled down the address. "We'll see you in half an hour."

Hanging up the phone, she turned to her partner. "Feel like going for a ride? I'll fill you in on the way."

Jake sighed. "Anything to get away from paperwork."

Everything is connected.

Kenneth Irons had said so many times, repeating it to the point that it became a mantra when dealing with the Witchblade. The moment Ian recognized the address in question, he knew that it was the place to look. There was too much history to discount the club where Conchobar and Sara first met. Where he had watched from the shadows as someone else won Lady Sara's heart.

Ian spotted the banner still hanging above the stage, and momentarily bowed his head with respect for the dead. He had never disliked Conchobar; how could he hate the man who had brought Sara such joy?

Two weeks had passed since the bard's death, but his memory was still fresh - the state of the club was testament to that. The banner bearing his symbol still hung, but no musicians were gracing the stage this afternoon. No surprise, that; most acts did not appear until the evening. But even if there was someone performing, it would not disguise the fact that the club was in mourning.

Nor did it disguise the familiar figure sitting at the bar, away from the windows and the afternoon sun.

Pulling his cellphone from within his coat, Ian started to dial Irons' number. He stopped suddenly, reconsidering the situation. On the one hand, his first duty was to his master. But then, the Witchblade had its reasons for sparing this one, reasons that were probably up to the wielder to discover. Were he simply to deliver the man up to Irons, those reasons would probably never be revealed.

Ian thought it over for a few more moments before shutting the cellphone off and placing it back in his coat. He had a message to deliver.

*****

Bryan Cornish wasn't exactly what Sara expected, not at first glance. The short, unassuming redhead wouldn't have merited a second glance from the ordinary bystander. But the Witchblade saw things differently. He showed up clear as day on her radar; like Nottingham, he had a presence that the Witchblade wouldn't allow her to ignore.

He had a mouth to match that presence, however. Even Sara, a longtime proponent of the fact that a real New York hot dog had to be piled with toppings, was amazed at how seamlessly he inhaled the "heartburn-in-a-bun" the vendor had served him. Jake had passed on the hot dogs, declaring them both insane and getting a soda instead. The food wasn't a pointless stalling tactic. Once he'd eaten, Bryan was a lot more talkative.

Sara was still working on her hot dog by the time Bryan was done. "So, what's with the nickname?" Jake asked.

"Huh?"

Jake gestured towards the vendor. "'Robin Hood?'"

Bryan winced. "Oh, yeah." He threw the napkin in a nearby trashcan. "I've picked up the tab for some homeless guys in the past. You hang out here long enough, you can tell the winos from the ones who really want food."

"And you hang out here enough."

"Dog walking. Under the table for people I know. Helps pay the rent," Bryan said. "But that's not the job you guys want me to talk about."

Sara finished her last mouthful. "Not unless any of the dogs you walk are homicidal."

"Homicidal, no. Sadistic, yeah." Bryan paused, thoughtful. "Like I said, I know the store back to front. But sometimes customers come in asking for this really obscure text, and then it's up to Ed to help them. *Was* up to Ed." He made a face at the correction. "Anyway, one of those guys came in on Friday, asking for this book I'd never heard of. So, of course, I called Ed up front and went back to organize some stuff. But I heard most of the conversation."

"What book?" Sara asked.

Bryan scowled. "Damned if I remember the title. All I know is, the minute the guy told him what he wanted, Ed looked like he was going to have a stroke. Said we didn't have it. The guy insisted he did, and it kind of went downhill from there. Never thought I'd hear Ed cussing anyone out before then. He didn't budge, and the guy stormed out." He looked at Sara, his gaze intense. "I think we had it in stock, but there was no way in hell Ed was going to sell it to that guy, no matter what the price."

"And you think this is connected," Jake finished.

Bryan shrugged. "Didn't think anything of it at the time, and I didn't see Ed after we closed up that night."

"Do you remember what the customer looked like?" Sara asked.

"Didn't get a good look at his face, but as for the rest of him..." Bryan paused for a moment. "It was a black guy, about your height," he recalled, nodding at Jake. "Had these squiggly tattoos on his arm. Didn't leave a name or any kind of info."

He didn't miss the look that Sara and Jake exchanged. "Let me guess. Sounds familiar."

Jake nodded. "Look, Mr. Cornish--"

"Bryan."

"Bryan," Sara corrected, "you're gonna have to come down to the station and give us a statement. This guy you saw is probably the same guy we're after."

"One of them, anyway," Jake murmured.

Bryan sighed. "I was afraid you were going to say that."

Contrary to Bryan's apprehension, it didn't take very long to get a statement - including his solid alibi - or to get some further details worked out with the help of a sketch artist. While Bryan didn't get a look at the suspect's face, he had been able to get a better glimpse than they had, since he hadn't been distracted by gunfire at the time. He even sketched out what he recalled of the spidery tattoos - and the symbols matched what Sara remembered seeing. None of the mug shots he'd been shown were any help, but he had been able to contribute information on height and build, which hadn't been concealed by a hooded raincoat this time around.

Sara saw Bryan out, while Jake stayed back in the office to run the details through a database. "If I were you, I'd stay in tonight," Sara advised him, handing him a slip of paper. "Give me a call if anything happens. I don't know if this is enough to get a search warrant, especially since we can't serve it to the proprietor."

"That reminds me." Bryan fished around in his pockets, pulling out a notebook. "Ed's got a business partner - she doesn't know a damn thing about the rare books business, but the shop's in her name too for insurance. I'm guessing you guys haven't talked to her; I stopped by her place to drop off some stuff I'd borrowed, and she didn't know anything either."

"Insurance?"

"Yeah. One thing I know about Ed: he really hates his brother. Don't know why, but he said there was no way what's-his-face was getting his hands on the shop if anything happened to him." He flipped through the book before finding what he was looking for. "Oh, yeah. Rhiannon Price. You want to get a warrant, serve it to her."

Sara copied down the number he showed her. "Why isn't she here talking to me now?"

"She works for an accounting firm downtown," Bryan explained. "That, and she's even more paranoid than Ed. She signed on to help with the finances and to basically cover Ed's ass if something happened. Give her a call."

Sara nodded. "You going to be all right?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." He checked his watch. "I've got to go pick someone up. Let me know if you find anything else out."

"I'll do that."

With a grin, he turned and pushed his way through the crowd, heading outside. Sara pocketed the scrap of paper and made her way back to her desk. Jake was sitting at the laptop, busily plugging in data and cross-checking records. "Find anything yet?"

"Found a couple guys with similar tattoos, but they're either accounted for or don't match the rest of the details," Jake answered. "I'll check a few more databases, but it'll take a while." He glanced towards the exit. "Kid doesn't like cops, does he?"

Sara frowned. "Don't think he likes crowds." Bryan had become especially agitated whenever Orlinsky and his cronies were hanging around, which Sara personally thought showed he was a good judge of character.

"Think he's a suspect?"

"I doubt it. Solid alibi, not much in the way of a motive. I'd put him at the bottom of the list." Sara was flipping through folders as she spoke. "But while we're fishing for a scapegoat, I can think of someone else."

"Pez, first off, I'm not fishing for a scapegoat, and second off, who?"

"I know that. Quentin Travers."

It took Jake a few seconds to place the name. He turned and faced Sara, puzzled. "Why do you say that?"

"Bryan mentioned something to me on the way out. Travers has a business partner, Rhiannon Price. She's kind of a 'silent partner,' and she's there for insurance so that the only living family doesn't get his hands on the place." Sara studied the number. "According to Bryan, Edward Travers hated his brother Quentin with a passion. Made no secret of it, either."

"The man's on another continent, Pez."

"Doesn't mean he's not connected." Sara sighed. "Wish he'd been able to remember the book title, though. Even if Price cooperates, it'll take a little time to get a warrant."

She trailed off, staring at something. "Pez?" Jake asked. "Earth to Pez." He turned to see what he was staring at. "The hell?"

Standing in front of Sara's desk, having somehow gotten past the desk sergeant and the dozen other cops without any trouble at all, was a familiar dark-clad figure. One she wasn't entirely thrilled to see. "Detective Pezzini, I need to speak with you alone."

Jake was on his feet in a second, ready to confront the intruder. Sara quickly interposed herself between the two men before someone could get hurt. "Nottingham, you've got five minutes to explain what you're doing here before I personally kick your ass out."

Jake raised his eyebrows, baffled but intrigued by this turn of events. "I have some information that you may need," Ian said quietly, unperturbed by Sara's frustration and Jake's confusion. "Regarding the whereabouts of a man, about five foot ten, with bleached blond hair."

Even Jake recognized that description. Sara bit her lip, wanting desperately to vent her full frustrations at him but unable to with Jake standing there. "Get out of this building and wait for me out front. We'll talk."

"Of course." He bowed slightly before turning and heading swiftly out towards the front desk.

Sara watched him go, silently counting to ten. Jake came up behind her. "Isn't that--"

"Yep." Sara folded her arms. "I don't believe this."

"I don't trust him," Jake said.

"Me neither, but do you have any better ideas?" She started to go, then paused. "Damn it."

Jake blinked for a second, and then suddenly understood: this was something she had to look into on her own, and she wasn't particularly happy about leaving him behind. He smiled in spite of himself. Contrary to the bullshit that Dante had been feeding him, Sara still remembered that they were partners, and it was good to see a reminder of that. "Go on ahead. I'm going to see what I can dig up here, maybe give this Price woman a call."

"Thanks, Jake."

"Hey, Pez?" She stopped and turned around again. "If you see any crazed weasels, don't try to take 'em on all by yourself."

She rolled her eyes, grinned, and headed out. Sighing, Jake settled back into his seat, and, making sure that no one was looking, punched in a particular URL. He smiled as a privileged CIA database logon screen appeared. "Alone at last."

"Bloody American postal service," Giles grumped as he stormed into the Magic Box.

"Welcome to the Magic - oh, it's just Giles," Anya muttered, cutting off her faux-cheery greeting and bringing her attention back to Xander, whose presence didn't do much to lighten Giles' mood. But the Watcher was too preoccupied with current events to acknowledge the two of them as he strode towards the research table where Willow sat, typing away.

Xander blinked. When he failed to irritate Giles, it was either very good or very, very bad. "Hey, G-man, what's going on?"

For answer, Giles slammed a brown paper package onto the table. Willow jumped.

"They sent my package - clearly addressed to me - to a woman two doors down from me. I only discovered that this morning when overhearing her chattering away to another neighbor as if I didn't exist!" He scowled. "And then when I asked her about it, she didn't remember who I was even though she's seen me pick up the mail every morning. She wouldn't give me the package without positive identification. My driver's license, to her, did not count."

"I told him it was a bad photo," Anya interrupted.

Xander stared at the slightly battered package. "So how'd you get it?"

"I threatened to sue her for mail fraud." Giles sat down. "Amazing how the mere mention of a lawsuit petrifies most people in this country."

"Demons aren't quite as frightening as lawyers," Xander said.

Giles tore open the package, revealing a worn book. "Hey, that binding looks familiar," Willow observed.

Giles opened the book, pulling out a piece of paper folded between the cover and the first page. He read the note out loud. "'Rupert: Terribly sorry to have sent this separately. The postal service gave me quite a bit of grief over weight restrictions. Sincerely, Edward.' Well, that would explain it."

Willow paused. "This is the missing book, isn't it?"

"Yes, and he's marked a page." Another piece of paper was pressed between two pages, and Giles opened the book to the place indicated. "Hmm. Let me see here."

He opened the other two books and began flipping pages, trying to find the matching passages. Willow smiled and resumed typing on her laptop.

When Sara emerged onto the sidewalk, she didn't spot Ian immediately, a fact that didn't surprise her in the least. Nor did it surprise her to find him waiting beside her bike. "All right, what do you have for me?"

"The man that you've been searching for." Ian shifted his weight ever so slightly. "I found him."

"Where?"

He glanced at the slip of paper clenched in one gloved hand. "Someplace filled with memories."

"Cut the bullshit, Nottingham. What does Irons get out of this?"

Ian hesitated. "My master does not know yet that I am here. I came to you first, Lady Sara."

"Why don't I believe that?" But instinctively she knew it was true. "All right, fine. Just give me an address already."

"I would prefer to lead you there." Sara glared at him, and he bowed his head again. "I cannot go completely against my master's wishes. Understand that I am walking a thin line by speaking to you first."

Sara shook her head. "Fine. Lead on." She strode past him, heading for her bike. "But tell Irons that I am really getting tired of these little games."

She didn't catch his whisper. "As am I."

It just figured that the trail would lead here, Sara mused as she entered the familiar club for the first time in weeks. So many emotions and memories were tied into this place, that it just figured that her only real lead would be in the place where she first met Conchobar.

Nottingham had escorted her to the front door, but then, as she hesitated at the threshold, excused himself and disappeared into the late afternoon shadows. Normally, she found that habit annoying, but now she appreciated it; he recognized the sorrow that flashed across her face and had left her out of respect. This was something she had to do alone. Nottingham, she had to admit, had his moments.

The club looked much the same as it had a few weeks ago - the banners were still up. Sara paused for a moment, wondering if she'd stepped back in time and if Conchobar was about to come up on stage and serenade her. But the moment passed and reality asserted itself. Conchobar was still dead, and the bar was shrouded in memories and a bit of wistful sorrow. The show had to go on. Life had to go on. The witness had to be around here somewhere, or Sara was going to find Nottingham and beat him. The crowd shifted, and she got a better look at the far corner of the bar.

And there he was, half-slumped over a bottle, muttering incoherently to himself. Sara spotted him easily; he was sitting directly beneath an overhead light, and it reflected off the peroxided hair like a beacon. The bartender was ignoring him, and he in turn seemed to be ignoring the rest of the world, directing his quiet rant into the bottle in front of him.

She sat down beside him, her presence not affecting his stupor. The bartender recognized her and gave her a quizzical look, surprised to see her there. It wasn't hard to see why; reminders of Conchobar were all around her, and it was well known among the regulars that she had been intimately involved with the singer. She nodded to him and glanced around quickly, indicating that she wanted to be left alone with her witness. He saw the look in her eyes; this was business. Nodding, he moved away to deal with customers at the other end of the bar.

The blond was still unaware of her. Sara took a moment to take a look around at the club, taking in the sights and smells that brought to mind skillful hands and a charming smile, lying in bed late while he murmured silly nothings in her ear. Not sweet nothings, but silly; those guaranteed to make her laugh rather than make her melt. She could almost hear him singing again, his warm and lazy voice like a soft blanket or a summer afternoon. Sara smiled in spite of herself. Earlier, the memories would have brought nothing but pain. It was still there, the stab of guilt and sadness, but it was soothed by the comfort of the memories themselves.

Turning away from the club, she stared at the blond man, studying him more closely. He'd noticed her now, but was pointedly staring into the bottle - possibly hoping that she was an alcohol-induced hallucination. Sara pursed her lips, trying to recall the fragmented vision the Witchblade had given her. She'd had visions before, visions that had divulged a wealth of information in a few seconds, but never so much, so fast. The majority of the memories she'd picked up were hazy and indistinct, crowding one another out. It was too much information at once, and she was left with only a general sense of the man sitting beside her.

And that wasn't going to be enough. Sara cleared her throat. "How many left before you pass out this time?"

The sharp-featured face turned, and piercing blue eyes - the usually keen gaze softened somewhat by alcohol - regarded her with frustration. "Wonderin' when you'd show up."

"You were expecting me?"

"I was just thinking it couldn't get any worse."

She sniffed. "Yes it could, if you don't tell me everything you know about that little get-together last night."

"I was drunk. Don't remember much."

"Maybe you'll remember more once I shove you outside into the sunlight. Vampires heal fast, don't they?"

He seemed surprised. "Hm. Denial doesn't work for you, then, does it."

"Here's the deal." She turned to face him completely. "I've got three murders on my hands. Two are connected to that bar you were drinking yourself to death in last night. The third was committed right in front of you, if I'm not mistaken. Drunk or not, it's hard to miss it when someone gets shot a few feet away."

"So what do you want, then?" he demanded. "Going to drag me down t' the station and take a statement? Just love to see the judge who'll take a dead bloke's word as evidence."

"Actually, I was thinking that you'd tell me everything you heard, and I wouldn't toss you out into that nice sunny street." She drummed her fingers on the bar. The Witchblade was clearly visible, the red stone glowing faintly.

He stared at it for a second, stared at her calm expression, and smiled bitterly. "A supernaturally strong bird threatens to smack me around a bit for information. Where have I seen this before?" The smirk abruptly faded, and he turned back to his drink. "Just let me finish my beer."

Sara frowned, annoyed. Ordinarily, she would have dismissed this as a stalling tactic. But his expression was guilt-edged, longing, full of sorrow and pain. Sara hesitated, recognizing the emotion. She'd been there herself.

~I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it.~

She didn't say anything for a moment. "Who was she?"

"What do you care?"

"Been there."

He turned, ready to tell her off - to tell her that she had no idea what it was like, to have the one you loved taken away from you right in front of you, knowing that you could have prevented it. But he looked at her, truly looked at her, and held back. There was no pity in her green eyes, just frank understanding. For a second, he could see through the stoic mask, get a glimpse of the hollow place left inside. "Someone special." He took another gulp of his drink, thinking. "If I do this for you, what's in it for me? Aside, of course, from not having to be swept up off the pavement."

Sara stiffened. "If you're trying to hit me up for cash, buddy, forget it. Not on my salary."

"First off, the name is Spike." He set the glass down. "And I don't want money. I need information."

"What, how to break in to the nearest blood bank?" Sara said without thinking.

Spike ignored the sarcasm, digging into the pocket of his coat. "I'm looking for a girl. Runaway. And no, not as a snack," he added before she could make a comment. "Made a promise to her sister. Need to make sure she gets home safe."

"I'm Homicide. Unless she's dead, I'm not going to be much help."

"She's *not* dead." The vehemence in his tone stopped her protests. "I'd know." He retrieved a small framed photo from his coat and handed it to her. "The one on the left."

"I don't know if I can--" Sara began, reluctantly taking the photo. When she saw the faces of the two girls, she stopped, stunned. The frame was hand-decorated, with a myriad of shells and glitter pasted to it. The two young women were smiling for the camera, with a picture-postcard beach in the background. The older one was instantly recognizable as the blonde from her vision, but it was the other girl, the dark-haired one on the left, that gave Sara pause.

~Little Miss Muffet...~

She set the photo down. "How do you want to play this?"