It's sultry in New Orleans, even after midnight. Spike leaves the car in a small lot south of Rampart Street, whispering the simple incantation that makes predatory eyes slide off the dull paint like water from oiled skin. His baby will be safe. His only baby now - Dru is continents away, looking for her "Daddy."

The pain from that ebbs and flows; much like Dru's fickle affections, and Spike feels it washing up against the high-water mark that's located just above his unbeating heart.

The duster stays in the Desoto's trunk - too conspicuous in the heat. Also, he's not yet cleaned it after last night's loud and messy dinner. In black jeans and tee and battered boots he's just another body on the street. Most that pass him take the blood on his clothes for dirt.

He turns down the narrow streets, looking for the shop he's heard talked about. A place that can help a creature like him, a place with the means to succor a soulless lover, to ease a non-functional heart. What, down here, they call a "hoodoo store."

Finally he finds the place he seeks. It's set back from the street a bit - a converted house; small, with a second story over the back half. A rickety porch wraps around the faded wooden structure like a moth-holed shawl around an old lady's frail shoulders. There's a crooked swing and a couple of rotted rattan-seat rockers. Overhead a hand-lettered, faded sign reads "Dixie Drug Store." The door is open, covered by a homemade screen - a rectangle of wire mesh nailed to a wooden frame. Spike pulls it open to step inside, closing it softly before the rusted spring can slam it behind him.

The interior of the store seems to be one large room, and it's packed with baskets and bins and shelves full of...things. It smells like everything all at once - herbs and plants and potions, musk and sea and the deep, lush earthy magic of New Orleans itself. The city thrums with a gentle undercurrent of magic, and it's stronger here. Inside these walls, Spike can feel it prickling his scalp and humming in his bones. Peppers and roots and dried husks hang from the rafters, the shelves hold sprays and stoppered bottles of oil and jars of colored dust, shiny stones, things that might be eyes. Spike pauses at a basket of small bundles of calico cloth. Each one bulges with twigs and leaves and is tightly tied with a loop of twine. One catches his eye and he reaches for it.

Before his hand can connect, he hears a voice.

"You don't want that charm."

The voice is deep and soft and it carries the accent of the area, flowing sweet and slow as molasses and almost as dark. Spike follows the sound to its source and sees a man standing in a doorway at the back of the shop. He's near a lamp, and the shaded bulb casts a golden glow around him.

The man is tall and broad; his hair dark, over-long and wavy. He flicks it out of his eyes with a toss of his head and settles into a casual lean against the door frame. His tanned arms are bare, the forearms sprinkled with dark hair where they're crossed over his chest. He wears a sleeveless white undershirt and a pair of khaki pants - once neatly pressed, but gone limp with wear and heat. His feet are bare on the worn wooden floorboards. Spike raises his eyes to the man's face and can't help the smile that spreads over his own. The tall man is looking at him with frank interest; brown eyes dancing and cupid's bow lips turning up into a smile that's a little bit shy but mostly knowing.

"Yeah?" Spike says. "And why's that, mate?"

"Last man walked that thing out of here just up and vanished. Hear tell they found his wallet and his fancy wingtip shoes biding time on top of a tombstone down in Algiers." The man's voice holds the practiced cadence of a veteran storyteller.

Spike withdraws his hand from the basket and walks closer to the stranger, stopping a couple of yards away. "Well," he says. "I don't carry a wallet, and you can see that wingtips aren't exactly my style." He lifts one foot and turns the ankle from side to side, displaying the scuffed and scratched leather of his boot.

The man in the doorway nods, then inclines his head toward the room behind him. "I was just fixing to get some supper ready. You're welcome to join me. Maybe after that we can talk about what you're here for."

Spike sniffs deeply, and can discern the rich smell of something cooking. "I've learned never to turn down a meal in this town. What're you making?"

"Jambalaya - it's an old family recipe."

Beyond the doorway is a small kitchen with old-fashioned appliances and a faded linoleum floor. The other man walks to the stove and lifts the lid of a cast-iron pot.

"You got a name?" Spike asks.

"Some folks around here call me Big Daddy."

"Not bleeding likely," Spike snorts, watching a wooden spoon turn round and round in the pan, sending savory aromas into the air.

The man places the lid on the pot and turns, arms coming up to cross over his chest again as he looks at Spike appraisingly. "Names have power, you know," he says. "'Nawlins is one big place of power, a city full of magic. You think I can trust you?"

"I repeat," Spike says. "Not. Bleeding. Likely."

That gets a laugh, and it's a ripe sound, full of the crackle and smoke of burning fall leaves. "Think I'll take a chance," the man says. "I'm Alexander." His accent softens and slurs the letters, gentling the "r" and remaking the name as something more rolling and liquid.

Spike holds out a hand and smiles when it's shaken. "Name's Spike."

Alexander keeps hold of his hand and smiles again. "Oh, no. I told you my secret name..."

Spike finds himself saying, "William," without a thought.

"William." Alexander repeats it, and Spike feels a small chill at the way the long-unused name sounds in this man's mouth.

Spike starts slightly as the warm hand releases his colder one.

"You can wash up there at the sink, William," Alexander says, emphasizing the name a little. "Supper be done soon." He moves back to the stove and opens the oven door to peer inside, closing it quickly and returning to the jambalaya to stir it again.

Spike can smell sausage and tomatoes and onions and spices and his mouth waters. He turns to the sink and washes his hands with the plain cake of soap, making sure to get all the blood out from under his fingernails. He keeps his attention on Alexander, bustling behind him, setting the table and finishing dinner. He dries his hands on the threadbare towel and hangs it on its hook, turning to find dinner on the table along with two beers. The rich, red stew has been ladled over steaming rice, and there's a napkin-draped basket in the center of the Formica-topped table.

"Dig in," Alexander says, taking a seat and picking up his spoon. "It's spicy, but you look like you can handle it."

Spike grins and tastes the jambalaya. It's not spicy - it's volcanic. He loves it. They eat in companionable silence, sharing the warm cornbread from the basket, pausing halfway through for Alexander to retrieve two more beers. Finally, emptied bowls are pushed away, and they look at each other for a long moment.

"So, William," Alexander says. "What brings you here?"

"New Orleans, or your shop?" Spike asks, stalling.

"What's brought you to me, sugar?" The endearment sounds natural, almost comforting.

"I need a thing," Spike says. "I need something - numbing spell, maybe. Got something that will dull the ache a bit?"

Alexander laughs, not unkindly. "Trouble with your lady?" he asks.

"That obvious, is it?"

"Hmmmm, I think I know what you need, if you're willin' to take my advice." Alexander leans back in his chair and eyes Spike, letting his tongue play over his full bottom lip.

Spike props his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm. "You seem trustworthy," he says, tilting his head to the side.

"Well, if you don't mind my saying, you look like you've been sleeping rough a few days. Smell like it, too."

"Hey!" Spike says, straightening in his chair.

"Hush," Alexander says gently. "All I'm saying is that you look like you could use a little comfort, some solace. This here is a safe place. You can leave your pride behind for a little while, wash those clothes, take a long hot shower and worry about tomorrow when it comes, that's all."

Spike knows that that's not all. This guy wants to fuck him. It's nothing new - most people, and plenty of demons want to shag him on sight - he's just got that look. But there's something about Alexander - something deeper than just another opportunist, and Spike can't say that the man's not appealing.

"You just trying to get me naked?' Spike asks.

"Wouldn't mind it," Alexander says, looking Spike in the eye. "But it ain't a condition or nothing - up to you."

Spike thinks about it for a minute, but it's a foregone conclusion. He has been sleeping rough, and a fuck would be a fair trade for a good meal, a hot shower and some sleep in a real bed, even if he didn't fancy the bloke - and he does.

"What about my spell?" Spike asks.

"Why don't we let the morning come and we'll figure it out then?" Alexander's eyes are kind, but his smile has a wicked edge.

"'M not much for mornings," Spike says. "More of a daysleeper."

"Bit of a night owl, myself," Alexander says, standing. "I'll bring you down something to change into - washing machines over there. He gestures to a curtained alcove at the back of the room and heads up a set of stairs opposite it.

Spike can hear him walking overhead, and finds himself stacking the dishes in the sink. Alexander returns, holding a worn cotton robe.

"I left you some clothes and towels in the bathroom upstairs." He says, handing the robe over. He gives Spike a long look and leaves the room.

Spike wastes no time getting out of his grubby clothes, wiping half-heartedly at his dirty boots with his socks. The curtained alcove holds an older model washing machine and no dryer - the space where it should be is strung with a makeshift clothesline. Clothes and soap go in, and he looks down at his naked body, stark in the kitchen light. Blood has soaked through his clothing in places, leaving him dappled with rusty smears. He puts the robe on and steps to the bottom of the narrow staircase. He takes an unneeded breath and wonders if he's going to have a barrier problem. Sure, the house holds a place of business, but there are living quarters here. He doesn't really want to tell Alexander what he is - not with his clothes in the wash and the delicious possibility of a tumble. Steeling himself, he mounts the stairs. At the top, he pauses again, then steps forward. No barrier.

The bathroom is directly across from the stairs - it's small, just a shower, vanity and toilet, but it's clean. A bare bulb illuminates the tiny room and Spike can see two towels, a pair of striped pajama pants and a white wife-beater stacked on the sink. He closes the door behind him and starts the water, shucking the robe.

Stepping into the shower feels like heaven. Alexander wasn't wrong - he needs this. Needs the hot water pouring over his head, washing away blood and death and heartache. There's a bottle of cheap shampoo that smells like lavender, and he lathers his hair twice to get the gel out, shaking the water out of the thick, curling mass. He washes twice with the soap, and then just stands for a while, letting the water run over him, enjoying the borrowed warmth that feels good, even in the summer heat.

He steps out onto the floor and dries himself quickly. He stops to think for a moment, and realizes that what he's feeling is anticipation. It's been forever since he's felt quite this way. No man since Angelus...not going there. He shakes his head, as if to clear the encroaching dark thoughts. He's excited; curious as to what Alexander has in mind, and finds himself wondering what the other man's skin will feel like under his fingers and lips. Spike runs a hand through his hair, wishing for gel, then puts on the pajama pants and tank, both too big for him.

He hangs the towel on the shower curtain bar and pads back downstairs, listening for Alexander. He finds him in the kitchen again, sitting at the table. A mostly-full bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses sit on the table, and Alexander is going through a complicated ritual of packing loose tobacco into a pipe. He looks up when Spike enters and gestures toward the ashtray now on the table.

"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," he says.

Spike walks over to the small pile of belongings he's left atop the washer and gets his cigarettes and Zippo before returning to the table. He sits, and watches Alexander light his pipe before lighting his own cigarette and pouring out two shots of Jim Beam.

Alexander removes his pipe from his mouth and lets the sweet smoke drift from between his lips before picking up his glass and draining it quickly. Spike drinks his own shot, and lets the rich, earthy aroma fill his senses. He inhales deeply, and smells smoke and bourbon and the soap on his own skin, along with the faint sweat and spice of Alexander's body.

"You want to talk about it?" Alexander asks.

"It's not an original story, mate," Spike says, refilling their glasses. "My bird flew the coop; looking for the one she loves better than me - end of story."

Alexander makes a low humming sound. "That's bitter fruit, for sure. And that's what's brought you to me, a broken heart?"

"Sometimes think it was born broken; damn thing doesn't work right - too soft by half." Spike laughs humorlessly and throws back his second shot, then picks up his cigarette.

They smoke in a contemplative silence for a while, then Alexander taps his pipe sharply on the ashtray to empty it and begins the filling ritual again. "There's things in the shop out there that can help with a broken heart - plenty of things, if you believe in the hoodoo stories."

"I believe in magic," Spike says, crushing out the butt of his cigarette. "I know it's real." He watches as the pipe is relit. "But I'm thinking what I need might be upstairs."

Alexander's only reaction is to blow a perfect smoke ring before levering himself out of his chair. He walks to the washer, checks the dials on the front and pulls out Spike's jeans and tee shirt, shaking them out straight and hanging them on the line before returning to the table to empty his pipe and drink his second shot.

Spike sits in his chair, looking down at his hands and waiting. He jumps a little when Alexander's hand comes down on his shoulder, gripping the muscle gently. Spike tilts his head to one side, and feels Alexander's slightly rough palm slide up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking softly at the hollow under one cheekbone. Spike looks up into soft brown eyes.

"She's a fool, sugar - a body'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to want a man like you." Alexander's voice is soft and strong, and Spike knows that he is lost - he never could resist being wanted. The hand cupping his face moves to the back of his neck, and he allows himself to be pulled to his feet.

For a second, he thinks of Angelus, of being pulled ever upward by those long arms and held in an iron grasp by a tall, dark-haired man. That's where the resemblance ends, though, because Alexander's hands are gentle, and his arms come around Spike with purpose but no violence, and Spike finds himself sliding one hand up to touch Alexander's throat while the other rests lightly at the small of his back.

They stay that way for a long moment, chests touching, Spike's head resting neatly beneath Alexander's chin. Finally, Spike feels his face being tilted upward, and he lets it happen, lets Alexander look into his eyes and then lower his head to touch their lips together softly.

The contact is electric, and they both groan. Spike uses the hand clutching Alexander's lower back to pull them together, feeling the other man's erection grind against his own as their tongues duel and play.

"I want you, William," Alexander says, leaning down to kiss Spike's neck. "Want you bad."

Spike tilts his head back, welcoming the hot tongue on his sensitive throat. "You're in luck, then," he gasps. "'Cause I'm very, very bad."

Alexander's lips buzz against his neck as he laughs. He raises his head to grin at Spike. "I just bet you are, sugar, wicked through and through." His expression sobers, but he holds the eye contact. "Tell me true...you want this? Want me? I meant what I said about there not being any conditions."

In answer, Spike pushes his hips forward and lets Alexander feel all of him, pressing into his body almost to the point of pain. "That good enough for you?" he asks.

"It is, sugar, but I'd sure like to hear the words," Alexander says.

Something in his voice touches Spike, speaks to the part of him that chafes wildly at always being second-best to Angelus, so he pulls back enough that he can look Alexander in the eyes. "Yes, I want you, love. Need you."

Alexander's brilliant smile is payment enough for speaking his heart, but Spike takes his lips in a searing kiss anyway. By the time they break apart, they're both panting, and they're so wrapped up in each other's arms that it's difficult to tell which limbs belong to who.

"Come on," Alexander says. "There's a big old brass bed upstairs, just waiting for you and me."

Spike lets himself be led up the stairs. The bedroom does have a brass bed, and it is big. A beautiful, handmade quilt has been folded back, leaving the bed open to clean white sheets. Alexander releases Spike's hand and walks to the large window, pulling back the curtain.

"Turn off the lamp, sugar," he says. "The moon's near full, and I want to see you in her light."

Spike clicks off the small lamp and sits down on the bed. The sheets are old and soft. He turns so that he can see Alexander at the window, and the moonlight casts him in a blue glow, leeching all other colors away. Alexander walks to the side of the bed and takes Spike's face in his hands, tuning it gently from side to side.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, and Spike pulls away, burying his face against Alexander's cotton-covered belly. The heady scents of sweat and skin and the musk of arousal are heavy in his nose, and he reaches to push the shirt up and away, rumbling with approval as Alexander reaches down to pull it off.

Spike kisses his way across Alexander's quivering abdominal muscles, then up and down along the fine trail of dark hair that leads down to the waist of his khaki trousers. Hands come to rest on his shoulders; just touching, not demanding, and Spike repeats his path, tracing scrollwork with the tip of his tongue, raptly listening to the moans and gasps and growls above him.

"So good," Alexander pants. "Damn, William, feels so good." His hands rise to tangle in Spike's hair, digging into the curls and rubbing his scalp; it makes Spike want to purr, but he's too busy finding undiscovered skin and mapping it with his mouth. He gets his hands onto Alexander's hipbones and uses them to push him back, making just enough room for him to stand, then he makes his way up, stopping for kisses and bites and teasing laps of his tongue at responsive skin and stiffened nipples. Alexander is wild-eyed and breathing heavily by the time Spike makes it back to his lips, where he's rewarded with deep, rough kisses.

Alexander reaches for the string that's barely holding the striped pajama pants to Spike's hips and unties it, watching as the material falls to puddle on the wooden floor. Spike pulls off his shirt and lets it drop. Alexander reaches out and touches Spike then, gentle fingers on velvet skin over hardness, and Spike groans when he gives him a hard stroke and then another.

"Yes," he hisses. "Touch me."

He doesn't have to repeat himself; Alexander has one hand on his cock and the other reaches out to brush a nipple, gently teasing it to hardness as his mouth comes down to lick at its twin. Spike feels as though he's caught up between three sensations, and he doesn't know which one to push himself toward, so he simply throws his head back and surrenders himself to pleasure.

He's falling then, pushed to the bed, losing the two warm hands and Alexander's inferno mouth. He cries out wordlessly at the loss.

"Don't worry, sugar, I won't leave you like this. Well, not for long, anyhow." Alexander's teeth gleam in the half-light, and Spike grins back, knowing there's an edge of desperation to it. He watches as khakis and plain white boxers are stripped down strong, tanned legs.

Spike can't stop the moan that breaks free when Alexander steps out of his trousers and straightens. He's big, and uncut like Spike, and so hard that the skin looks stretched, taut. He bites his lip when Spike gently skates the backs of his fingers along the underside, tracing the vein. Spike's moan turns into a gasp when Alexander rolls onto the bed, rolls on top of him and lets their cocks slide together for the first time.

"Want you, William - want to be inside you. Please, sugar." Spike shudders at the endearment, and at the stark need in Alexander's voice. "It's been so long, need you so much." His voice is shaky with arousal and with holding back, asking.

Spike leans up and kisses him, twining one hand into his hair, the other curling around a firm bicep. He pulls away to let Alexander breathe. "Want you, too, love - inside. Want all of you in me."

Alexander props himself on one hand and reaches for the bedside table with the other, fumbling for a tin in the drawer. He gets it open, and Spike smells wax and flowers. He forgets all about it as Alexander slides slicked fingers over his balls, nudging his legs apart with one of his. Spike curls his body, knees high, wrapping around heaving ribs, opening himself. He groans as the first finger slides in, steady and sure, then makes a wordless sound of deep pleasure as that finger twists inside him, finding his sweet spot and gently tracing back and forth over it.

As the second finger slides in, Alexander kisses him, tongue mimicking the motion of his hand. Spike takes it, hands clenching on sweat-sheened shoulders, knees pressing in, back arched against the bed. Alexander pulls away to slick his cock, and Spike whimpers a bit at the loss, feeling empty.

"I'm here, sugar," Alexander growls, lining himself up. "Not gonna leave you. I'm right here."

Spike moans as he's filled, and it's a high, airy sound of pleasure and pain and everything else. Alexander gives a rattling groan of his own as he gets all the way in, and holds there, arms shaking with the strain of holding his weight up, of not moving, of not coming.

"So...good...William," he pants. "Feels so good. Beautiful. Perfect."

They're both shaking, both panting, and Spike is stunned at the intensity of the sensations he's feeling. He's only ever bottomed for Angelus, and pain had always been a factor at some point. But there's no real pain here - stretching and burning, yes, but that little bit makes the pleasure all the sweeter. He raises his hips experimentally, and feels Alexander inside, all the way in, bodies sealed tight together.

"Fuck me," he whispers. "Want to feel you move inside me."

Alexander takes and releases a great shuddering breath and leans down to press his forehead against Spike's. He holds there, and Spike clenches his internal muscles down hard. And grins when Alexander yelps.

"Jesus god!"

So Spike does it again.

He gets his wish then. Alexander pulls almost all the way out in a single, glorious slide, then plunges back in, setting a fast pace, hips snapping, arms corded with tense muscle as he fucks Spike into the mattress.

The old iron bed shudders and creaks, and the headboard thumps the wall rhythmically. Spike wraps his legs around Alexander's ribs and thrusts up to meet him, stroke for stroke, heels beating a tattoo on the tanned skin of his back. He feels the tell-tale tingle at the base of his spine and lets out a whine, not wanting it to end.

At the sound, Alexander's pace slows, becoming as languid as his accent; a deep, supple motion of hips and thighs. "Stay with me, sugar," he says, low and growly. "We've barely got started."

He's telling the truth. They're so in sync that Spike feels as if he's some sort of instrument being played by a master. Alexander takes him up to the edge time and time again, somehow knowing when Spike is walking the razor line of orgasm, and he pulls him back every time with a change of pace, or softly spoken words and once, by stopping altogether and holding himself above Spike's body, just the head of his cock inside, and staying there until Spike is nearly begging.

He gives in with a smile and soft words, pressing back inside with a twist of his hips that makes Spike howl like a coyote, head thrown back and moonlight gleaming off his skin. Alexander does it again and again, pressing and twisting, and - finally - getting one hand between them to stroke Spike's dripping, aching cock.

"Come for me, sugar," he says, voice hot and dirty and wild. "Want to feel it, give it to me."

Spike can't resist, and before he can even grasp a thought, he's coming hard, body bowing against Alexander's chest, head thrown to the side in supplication. Just as he's riding out the last shudders of his orgasm, he feels burning heat inside, and Alexander gives a final thrust, and Spike thinks they must be a single creature, they're so connected.

Alexander falls down onto him and pants harshly into the side of his neck. Spike lets his legs down with some difficulty, but won't let them be separated. "Stay," he says. "I can hold you."

Eventually, Alexander regains his breath and rolls them onto their sides, gently pulling out of Spike's body. He gets to his feet with a grunt and goes into the bathroom, returning with a damp towel. He cleans Spike up reverently, then swipes at his own belly before folding the towel and laying it on the bedside table. He slips back into the bed, nudging Spike over and pulling the sheet up to their waists.

They lay side by side for a while, silent in the moonlight. It's a companionable silence, and they give each other absent, gentle touches - a finger twining a curl, a toe dancing up a leg, hipbone bumping hipbone, sweet, almost chaste kisses. Spike watches as Alexander goes back to the window and draws the curtains, and if he notices the other man carefully checking the edges, he thinks nothing of it, simply welcomes him back to bed.

Spike wakes at sunset, just like always. He's alone. It's dim in the curtained room, but there's no sign of Alexander. Spike gets up and pulls on his discarded pajama pants, wincing at some residual soreness. He thinks back to the night before. They'd fallen asleep after Alexander had fucked him half to undeath, and he'd awakened in the wee hours of the morning to a hot mouth around his erection.

That had turned into another marathon fuck, this time with Spike in the driver's seat - determined not to be shown up by a human. He'd used every trick in his repertoire, and had made Alexander beg. He'd loved the desperate sound of the other man's voice, but not half as much as he'd loved the sounds he'd made when Spike finally allowed him to come. He'd be hearing that sultry accent screaming, "William!" for a long time.

Smiling and scratching at his belly, Spike pads downstairs to the kitchen. His clothes are dry, so he drops the pajama bottoms and pulls on his jeans, tee shirt and boots, restoring his belongings to his pockets and ruefully trying to smooth his wild hair. Figuring that Alexander's somewhere in the shop, he turns that way. He stops in his tracks as he clears the doorway.

The shop is empty. Not just empty, the place is abandoned - desolate. The empty shelves and a few lone baskets are covered with a thick layer of dust, and cobwebs hang thick in the corners. Spike turns back to the kitchen, and it's in a similar state. He thunders up the stairs, and the bed he's just slept in is swaybacked and rusted, the quilt yellowed and falling apart with age.

He walks back downstairs in a daze, and realizes that the thrum of magic, which had been beating away in his brain like a drum, has gone, and only the subtle hum of the city's own magical roots is there. The shop no longer seethes with it; it has disappeared.

He walks out onto the porch, lighting a cigarette, and he's startled when the sound of a heartbeat greets him. There's an old lady curled up on the porch swing, watching the final seconds of the sunset. She turns to him, and he notices three things; the book tucked under her thigh, her snapping brown eyes and the fact that she's gently fingering a small cross that hangs around her neck.

"Whatcha doing in there? If you don't mind my asking," she says. Spike takes a seat on the top step, keeping his distance, and her hand moves a couple of inches away from the cross. "Place been closed for nigh on seventy years."

He looks at her. "I just spent the night and the day in there - there was a man..."

He's surprised when she throws her head back and laughs, long and loud. She finally gets her mirth under control, pulling a tissue out of her pocket to dab at her eyes. "Oh," she says, hiccupping with a few final chuckles. "Big Daddy never could resist a blue-eyed boy."

"Big Daddy?" Spike says, remembering. "Alexander?"

She nods. "My great-grandfather; he died when I was barely ten. This was his shop - he was the last of the LaVelle men to have the gift. Most of the family's moved away now - Nevada, California, even Florida."

"But, he was real," Spike insists, running a hand through his hair. He knows Alexander was real, can still feel him.

"'Bout as real as you are, sugar." Her smile is kind. "You'd best be moving on; it's not safe here."

Spike nods and walks down the stairs. He doesn't look back, but he wonders if he'll ever see the likes of Alexander LaVelle again.