Summary: With Darla's help, Drusilla has hatched a scheme to get her old Spike back; but as usually happens when Spike's involved, things don't go as planned.
Disclaimer: Dear Mr. Whedon, ME, et al: Thank you for letting me play with your toys.
Notes: This takes place some time during Season 6. Buffy is back. How? I dunno. That’s a different story. This is a story about Spike.
Thanks and love to cousinjean and fenwic, as they are the goddesses of beta; and to Larlie, for the logistics.
Some things were always the same, Buffy thought. Blah blah blah cemetery, blah blah blah vampires, blah blah blah stakeage. Of course, she considered, having a constant companion while patrolling took some getting used to. They hadn’t let her go out alone since… since she’d come back. There was always somebody with: Giles, Willow, Xander. And Spike. There was always Spike. Every night, he was out here, either by her side or watching from a distance. He was walking beside her now, scanning the darkness of the graveyard. Looking at her surreptitiously when he didn’t think she’d notice. Eventually, she thought, she might get really annoyed, or start to feel smothered. But for now, it was reassuring to have friends at her side.
Buffy saw three figures moving towards them. They hadn’t seen her yet, but Spike’s hair was pretty damn noticeable in the moonlight. It was only a matter of time.
“There.” She pointed.
“See ‘em,” Spike said. “You want big un, or little two?”
“How about I take left, you take right, and whoever’s done first gets the middle?”
“Works for me.”
The vampires had seen them now, and closed for the fight. Spike swung wide, angling his battle so that he could keep Buffy in view. Buffy just tore into her opponent, taking him down hard and fast. She kicked the vampire in the head twice. Then, as he swung at her and overbalanced, she staked him through the back. She spun to face the third vampire.
Spike blocked a few punches, paying more attention to Buffy’s fight than to his own. Hell. Third guy was the big one, and he looked like he could fight. He didn’t overextend, wasn’t trying to take her out with one punch. He could be dangerous.
The fist cracking into his jaw broke his concentration.
Pay attention to your own fight, you lovesick twit. Then back up the Slayer. Focused now, he stepped inside the other vampire’s guard and hit him in the solar plexus. And again. Then a shot to the face, and the vampire was backed up against a tree. Grab stake. Dust.
Buffy had been back for a month now. He wondered when he would finally relax, finally accept the miracle. No time soon, he imagined: just the thought of her patrolling without him made him want to vomit. He watched her as she fought, landing two quick jabs to the third vampire’s face. Then the vampire backhanded her across the face, knocking her into a tombstone.
Spike grabbed the vampire by his shoulders, and threw him to the ground. A few hard kicks to the ribs, a solid boot in the face, and the vampire was dazed and unmoving. Spike dropped to one knee while drawing a stake from his pocket, and slammed the stake through the vampire’s heart. It exploded into dust.
Slipping the stake back into his pocket, Spike stood and turned to find Buffy. She was back on her feet, and looking at him. She appeared to be unhurt. He took a few steps closer, to make sure. Was that a bruise on her cheekbone? Blood?
“Spike!” Buffy punched him solidly, smack in the center of his chest. Caught off guard, he staggered back a few steps.
“When are you going to stop being over-protecty boy?”
When I stop seeing you dead every time I close my eyes. “I - just - fff - ” He swung away from her. “Got used to fightin’ with the Scoobs, needing an assist here and there. That’s all.”
“Well, get over it. Fast. You’re making me mental.” Buffy crossed her arms. “And a mental Buffy is a stakey Buffy.”
Spike raised his hands. “Got it. Buffy does her own slaying.”
“Right,” Buffy said. “You’re not here to do my job, you’re here to watch my back.”
“Happy to oblige.” Spike paused. “Especially in that cunning little tank top.”
Buffy made a face. “Letch.”
“Well, I have to have something to do, if you’re doin’ all the fighting,” he pointed out, doing his best to sound reasonable.
Buffy shook her head in exasperation. “Not even gonna go there. Anyway, I think we’re done for tonight.”
Spike felt a flash of panic. “Walk you home?”
Hell, she’d seen it. The fear, and the need, had shown in his face. “What? Pleasure of your company, and all that. I swear, we run into any nasties on the way, I’ll hang back and place bets.”
Buffy laughed. She couldn’t stop herself. “See you tomorrow night. Unless you want to take a night off, I can patrol without you, you can catch up on your reading?”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll be here.”
Spike headed back to his crypt. He meandered leisurely through the tombstones of the graveyard. On a whim, he leapt up on one, balancing on the ball of one foot. He swung his free foot forward and back, and took a deep drag off his cigarette. Then he hopped down and flicked the cigarette off into the darkness. His home was in sight now; he idly wondered if he should check out the late movie. Or maybe get royally sloshed.
Hold up. He had company. Familiar company. Family. Spike briefly considered turning around, and heading back the way he had come. But it wouldn’t work; she already knew he was there. He moved forward to greet her.
Drusilla was waiting for him. She stood a few yards from the entrance to the crypt, swaying gently like a sapling in a breeze.
“Dru.” He stood for a moment, gazing at her quizzically. “Ducks, you really shouldn’t be here.”
Her eyes widened with gleeful mischief. “I need you. You’re essential. Must have all the pieces, or the picture isn’t there.”
“The Slayer was here not five minutes ago. She sees you, and you’re dust.” Spike shifted his stance, impatiently. “Dru, you need to get out of Sunnydale. Now.”
She held her hands out in front of her body, palms up. “Here is the devil, and here is the deep blue sea. Choose, Spike, choose.”
Spike took a few steps backwards. “Luv, please, not in the mood for games.”
“No choice is choice, Spike. No choice is the devil.”
“Yeah. Okay. Whatever.” Spike could feel himself getting frustrated. “Take care of yourself, see you around, I’m off to- ”
Something hit him in the center of his back. Electricity shot through him, shook him hard, knocked him off his feet.
“Ow! Bugger, that hurt!” Spike rolled over on his side, and recognized the figure standing over him.
“Darla. Should’ve known.” He grinned.
The blonde vampire stood over him, a three-foot-long taser held in her hands like a billy club. “And why is that, William?”
“You always were one for the sucker punch.”
Darla smiled in response, and then stuck the stun baton into Spike’s ribs. He convulsed at her feet for a few seconds, and she watched with delight. Drusilla crossed over to Darla, her eyes never leaving Spike’s agonies.
“One last chance, Spike my lad. Are you going to do the right thing by Drusilla here?” Darla wrapped her arm around Dru’s waist, pulling her close. “Or do we have to do things the hard way?”
He knew he shouldn’t say it. He should placate, or cajole. Anything to buy time, to get away, to regroup.
Darla hit him with the taser a third time. He spasmed and jerked, and then passed out.
“Dru, I can see why you brought this toy,” she smiled. “He looks like he’s dancing on a gibbet.”
“Fun, isn’t it?” Drusilla giggled.
“Very,” Darla purred. She prodded Spike’s torso with the edge of her boot. No response - he was definitely unconscious. She hit him with the taser a few more times, enjoying the way it made his insensible body arch and shudder.
Spike slowly became aware of his surroundings. His mouth tasted like blood and burnt toast. He was… hanging from something, from a shackle at each wrist. Not over his head, but from two different points- splayed out, his body hanging between his arms. Could he get his feet underneath himself, maybe stand? Good. Yes. Pressure’s off the shoulders. Roll the shoulders, make fists. Work on getting the feeling back into his arms. Damn, he felt like -
Like Darla had hit him with a stun gun seven or eight times. Hell, if he’d known it felt like that, he would’ve just coldcocked Buffy last year. Chip or no chip. Small wonder she told him to get knotted, he thought.
Okay, no use putting it off. Spike lifted his head and opened his eyes. He was in a cave somewhere. It wasn’t familiar: maybe twelve feet by fifteen feet, roughly rectangular, high enough ceiling, smooth floor. Something had lived here before, and made it habitable. Torches at the corners made it light enough to see the exit leading off to his right. Of course, he didn’t see himself using it any time soon. On the wall opposite him was a round mirror. It was huge, at least six feet in diameter, with a beveled edge and a strange, distorting shimmer. It was reflecting a low stone table in the center of the room. And another mirror, this one with heavy iron cuffs pulled towards its center. He snuck a peek over his shoulder. Yeh, there it was: a mirror matching the one on the other wall. He was shackled in front of it; the bolts holding the chains were driven into the solid rock on each side of the mirror.
Where were Darla and Dru? And where was his coat? And his boots? Lovely. Barefoot and weaponless, chained to a mirror. The only people who knew his whereabouts were two vampires who not only loved to torture people, but also were really quite skilled at it.
This didn’t bode well.
Okay, he could hear them coming now. They entered, whispering to each other. Darla was carrying things: candles, a bowl, a white cloth, a small leather bag tied with a knotted cord. Various items for a spell, Spike imagined. Not one he was familiar with. Dru held something small in her hands, which she slipped into a pocket when she entered.
“My lover’s awake.” Drusilla danced over to him, ran her fingers through his hair, and pulled his head back, hard.
“Trust me, Spike,” she whispered in his ear. She kissed him, grinding her mouth against his and splitting his lip. When blood welled from the cut, she cooed softly and licked it away. “Pretty flowers deep in the dark cruel woods. It’s all for the worst…”
He could see Darla behind Dru, covering the stone table with a cloth that looked like white silk. Dru moved to help her; the women set four thick cream-colored candles on the table, one at each corner of the cloth.
“Right.” Spike was tired of waiting. “Mind filling me in on our plans for the evening? ‘Cause if it’s just dinner by candlelight, ladies, I’m afraid my heart belongs to another.”
“We’re well aware of your little… fixation.” Darla looked particularly smug. “We’re doing a little scorned-woman’s-revenge scenario, Spike, and you’re front and center for this one.”
“Really?” Spike tugged at the chain holding his right arm to the wall. There was some play there; the bolt in the wall pulled out a fraction of an inch. “Little old me? I would’ve thought Angelus would be the one to get your knickers in a twist.”
“No,” Drusilla crowed. “That wouldn’t do at all. Whoosh! Out like a candle I would go.”
Spike turned his head to look at Darla. “Look, maybe it’s that I’m chained to the bloody wall, here, but I just don’t have it in me to interpret. Would you just tell me what you’re doing, or do I have to bash myself unconscious again?”
“It’s fairly simple, actually,” Darla replied. “Dru’s decided that she wants her boy back. And I’ve decided to help her.”
“Not gonna happen. Dru, honey, we’ve danced this dance.” He looked over at Dru, hoping still to protect her even as he pushed her away. “Remember? I’ve made my choice, pathetic as it may be.”
“You, but not you.” Drusilla leaned towards him conspiratorially. “I’m going to get my Spike back pure. No plastic in his head. No Slayer in his heart.”
“And then comes the really fun part,” Darla added.
Spike waited a moment for her to continue; then he rolled his eyes. “Fine. Which is?”
Darla walked over to him, smiling. She slowly ran her index finger down his neck, tracing the path of his jugular vein. “We kill the Slayer. And we kill you.”
With that, Darla stabbed her fingernail into Spike’s neck. Spike jerked back, but instantly Darla had her other hand shoved up under his jaw, pinning him in place. Blood spurted out of the wound, running down his neck and soaking his shirt.
“Dru! The blood!” Darla cried. And Drusilla was there, catching his blood in a deep, wide-rimmed bowl. It filled rapidly; too rapidly, Spike thought. He estimated that the bowl would hold three, maybe four pints of his blood. This would definitely weaken him. Separately, he could probably defeat either of the two women. At full strength, he would’ve risked fighting them both. But now, he decided, the prudent thing to do was to try to escape.
Then again, when had he ever been prudent? He grabbed the chain shackling his right wrist, and pulled. The bolt moved again, another fraction of an inch. At this rate, he would be dust a good three days before he got this bugger out.
Come on, Spike, keep working that damn bolt.
Another fraction of an inch. And another.
“Really,” Spike said. “Isn’t this an awful lot of trouble, just to get a little payback? You girls could always go out, make yourselves a coupla new lapdogs. Hell, you could make yourselves your whole bloody kennel.”
“Don’t want a new puppy. Can’t just go to the pound, make it all better, kiss all the hurts away.” Drusilla replied. Her gaze remained fixed on the blood filling the bowl in her hands.
The flow of blood from his jugular had slowed to a trickle. The bowl was almost full, to about an inch from the rim. Drusilla held the bowl in both hands, moving carefully to the table in the center of the room. She looked like a child with an overfull cereal bowl, Spike thought. Probably an apt simile, considering a vampire’s use for blood. But contrary to Spike’s expectations, Drusilla didn’t drink. Instead, she nicked her wrist with a fingernail and added her blood to his. As Dru’s blood drained into the bowl, Darla threw in a handful of a copper-colored powder. She chanted something in a language he couldn’t understand. It sounded similar to a few demon languages he had heard, but he couldn’t place it specifically. Now the bowl was completely full. Dru pulled her wrist away and Darla stopped chanting. Then Darla walked around the table, lighting the candles with a cheap pink plastic Bic lighter. Drusilla reached into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out the mystery item, which she placed carefully, almost reverently, in the center of the table.
It was a pair of eyeglasses. Wire rims, and rounded frames. More old-fashioned spectacles, really. Oddly familiar.
Next, Darla and Dru moved to opposite sides of the table, Dru on the side near the door, Darla facing her. They picked up the bowl, carefully, and slowly poured the blood over the spectacles. The blood soaked into the white cloth and pooled out away from the center of the table. It covered the table and bled down the cloth, until the white of the cloth was completely gone and the entire table was thick and dark with his blood. The bowl was empty. Darla threw it against the far wall and it shattered into a thousand pieces.
“There. All set,” Darla said. “Drusilla, are you ready for your present?”
“Eyes of pearl and bones of jet and dead hands clapping, clapping,” Dru replied eagerly, dancing in a circle.
“Well, I’m going to take that as a yes.” Darla looked at Spike. “She’s a little excited. How about you, sweet William? Are you ready for what’s to come?”
Shut up, Spike.
“I’m ready to knock you into next week, bitch.”
“Aww, Spike. You always know the right thing to say to a girl.” She ran her tongue across her top teeth seductively, flirting with him a little. “Dru. Let’s do it.”
Drusilla spread her fingers, and set her hands into the blood on the table. Darla did the same, and then her eyes locked with Dru’s. In unison, they began chanting. The language was the same as before, as incomprehensible as before.
“Nnng ho pelenth k shasss nik amah. Nnng ho pelenth k shasss nik amah. Nnng ho pelenth k shasss nik amah.” Their voices rose, swelled, grew louder with the power of the words.
Spike became aware of a light growing in the room. The light was so white it was almost blue, and seemed to be coming from behind him. He craned his head over his shoulder to look. Yeh, he was right. The light was coming from the mirror, and was pulsing brighter. Already the light was too intense; he had to squint and look away from it. Spike struggled frantically with the chain on his right wrist. The bolt jolted forward an inch, and then stuck fast.
“Come on, move,” he muttered. “Move, you wanker, move.”
The light was building behind him in the mirror. He could feel it push him away from the wall, feel all the little hairs on his body standing up. A ray of light shot forward from the center of the mirror. It shone through his chest, pushing him forward like a fist between his shoulder blades, and onto the glasses in the center of the table. It refracted through the blood-covered lenses of the spectacles. There the light changed color, matching the red of his blood, and shone through to the center of the second mirror.
“Bloody… watch where you’re going!”
Who said that? Spike looked around, but could see no one else in the room. Who was crying? Why was the voice so familiar?
Something began to appear in the light of the other mirror. Spike could see an alley full of trash, and the brick wall of a building. A man with dark blond hair, in a tweed suit, sobbing. A few scraps of paper clutched in one hand.
Oh, God. It was him. It was William.
Spike threw himself against his chains. Nothing moved. He gritted his teeth, and let his demon come forth. Using his hips against the glass as a fulcrum, he threw his upper body forward and heaved at the chain on his wrist. The muscles of his chest, arms, and stomach strained to their limit. For long seconds, nothing moved. Then, with a screech, the bolt holding his right arm pulled free from the wall. It lashed forward and clipped Darla on the side of her head. She fell to her knees, dazed.
Drusilla hadn’t noticed. She was mesmerized by the light, by the figure drawn into reality in front of her. She had stopped chanting, but her hands were still pressed into the cloth of the table.
Great. One down, one to go. Spike turned his attention to the second chain. This one didn’t move, no matter how much he heaved on it. Perhaps Darla had a key? No good. She wasn’t unconscious, and she was out of his limited reach. Right, then. He was just going to have to muscle his way out of this one.
And he was going to have to hurry. The spell was complete, and William was in the room. Really, actually in the room. The mirrors flashed a last time, and the light disappeared.
William looked up, through his tears, and his eyes widened. This wasn’t the alley he had turned into. This wasn’t any place with which he was familiar. And now, there was a young woman moving towards him, reaching towards him, her hands covered with… Oh good gracious! Was that blood?
William’s shriek echoed through the cave.
That was it. Spike turned around and, using the chain for resistance, braced his feet against the wall. Then he walked up the wall, planting his feet as close as possible to the bolt holding the chain. He heaved at the chain, using every muscle he had. The mirror cracked under his left foot, but the bolt didn’t give. Instead, his shoulder did. Spike screamed as he felt his shoulder pull out of his socket. Then he grabbed his shackled wrist with his right hand, just above the cuff, and kept pulling. The iron cuff bit into his hand. Blood was seeping from a dozen small wounds. The blood worked as lubrication, and Spike felt his hand pull slightly through the cuff. He pulled harder. He could hear small bones crunching in his hands, and felt his thumb break. He gritted his teeth, and pulled harder. One final jerk, and his wrist slipped free. Spike went flying across the cave. He braced himself for a hard impact, and tried to twist himself so that his hand could break his fall.
Instead, Darla did. He’d fallen on top of her, causing her head to crack hard against the floor of the cave. Spike grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her head against the rock a few more times, to ensure that she remained out of the fight. And because he really liked the thwacking sound it made. And once more, because, hell, he just really hated Darla. Then he pushed himself to his feet. His left arm wasn’t working at all, and hung from his side at a weird angle.
Drusilla was crooning to William, whose eyes were locked on hers. He appeared to be entranced: his face was full of puzzlement and hope, and he wore a dazed smile. Dru looked triumphant, and hungry. Until Spike bodyslammed her into the wall.
“Run! Run, you stupid git! Go!” He flashed into vamp-face, hoping to scare William into motion.
It worked. William let out a strange little meep, and then dashed out the cave’s exit.
“No!” Drusilla screamed, and launched herself after him. Spike grabbed her around the waist with his good arm, and used her own momentum to swing her back into the room. Then he let her go, and she crashed into the table, knocking over the lit candles. William’s spectacles went flying into the corner. Spike blocked the exit, stalling for time. He winced as he felt shards of the glass bowl cutting into the soles of his feet. Dru leapt back upright, and hissed at him.
“Spike. Always stepping when he should be hopping. You’ve taken my toys again, Spike.” Her voice was affronted, as though she had suffered a great wrong.
Knocking over the candles had started a real blaze. The spell had somehow caused his blood to dry, and the cloth was going up in flames. Darla lay dangerously close to the growing fire. Spike took a step back, and laughed.
“Well, Dru, it appears you have a choice,” Spike said. “You can take it out of my skin, and let Grandma go up like a Roman candle. Or you can haul her unconscious ass out of here, and let me go.”
“Ooooh!” Drusilla screeched, almost dancing with frustration.
“Six of one, pet. I’m always up for a tussle.” He was lying through his teeth. He didn’t know how he was standing.
Dru had a further moment of indecision, and then whirled to run over to Darla.
“Excellent choice,” Spike muttered. Then he staggered out of the cave, which led directly into a sewer tunnel. There was a little light coming through the sewer grate, signaling the coming sunrise. He looked to his left, and then his right, searching for William.
Beautiful. Where did he go?
Spike pounded on Buffy’s door. He had run all the way to Buffy’s house, racing the sunrise. His feet were cut and bleeding, and his shoulder throbbed mercilessly. He still had a shackle hanging from his right wrist, and the chain and bolt dragged behind him. He was woozy from lack of blood. But he made it to the porch with time to spare. If he could get somebody to open the door for him. Again and again, he hammered his right fist against the solid wood of the Summers’ front door.
“Slayer! Buffy! Get the hell up and open the ruddy door!”
Spike paused for a brief moment. He thought he heard something: bare feet padding towards the door, then stopping. He began pounding again. “If you don’t open this door in the next thirty seconds, either I break the lock or you sweep me up later!”
The door swung open. Dawn stood there in the doorway, with one hand on the door. She looked rumpled and sleepy, but her eyes still held a challenging look.
“C’n I come in?” Technically, he could already. But he was doing his best these days to observe the niceties, not to push his luck.
Saying nothing, Dawn moved out of the doorway. Spike nodded a thanks at her and stepped into the foyer.
“Three things,” Dawn said, as she swung the door shut. “One, I’m not really awake yet. So don’t talk to me for a half-hour, until I’ve had some coffee, and don’t give me any crap about being too young to drink coffee. Two, Buffy is upstairs, sleeping; you wake her at your own risk. Got it?”
“Got it,” Spike affirmed. He moved to the foot of the stairs. “Can’t wait. Oh. Three?”
“Three, you look like hell, Spike.”
“Yeh. Could be worse.” He grinned sardonically. “My ex is in town.”
Dawn stared at Spike as he limped up the stairs. “Omigod. Drusilla?”
“And she brought party favors.”
Spike crossed down the hall, and stopped in front of Buffy’s closed door. Knock, or go in? Screw it, he wasn’t aiming for sainthood, here. He turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
Buffy was still sleeping. She had kicked off her covers in the night, and lay in a patch of sunlight that had just begun shining through the window. She was on her back, her right arm stretched across the bed and the other arm curled around her head. Her knees were tucked to one side, the side opposite her outstretched arm. Spike could see, just where her tank top had pulled away from her pajama bottoms, about an inch of the skin of her stomach and flank. It glowed in the sunlight, gold and peach, moving faintly with the motion of her breathing.
Saint, no. Bloody masochist, was what he was.
“Buffy!” He started drumming the knuckles of his functional hand on her doorframe. “Up! Up! We need to talk.”
Buffy rolled over onto her side and pulled a pillow over her head. He continued drumming, and heard a muffled protest from underneath the pillow.
“Don’t make me start singing, Buffy,” Spike warned. “’Cause I’m telling you right now, I’ve had the Clash in my head all night.”
The protests were slightly more high-pitched, and maybe a touch louder. Sodding hell, now she was wriggling. He closed his eyes.
“Buffy! BuffyBuffyBuffyBuffyUPBuffyBuff-- ”
Something whacked him in the face, knocking him back a few steps into the doorframe. His dislocated shoulder slammed into the jamb, sending shots of white-hot pain through his body, and causing his vision to gray out at the edges. He let out a low moan of pain as he struggled to stay conscious. His right hand gripped the doorframe, the only thing keeping him standing. He concentrated on the feel of the wood underneath his fingers, concentrated on the pillow Buffy had thrown that was now at his feet, concentrated on not passing out. Slowly, his vision cleared and the pain ebbed.
Buffy was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking concerned. His soft cry of pain had woken her instantly. “Spike? What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”
“Shoulder. Out of … socket,” he ground out. “Need help gettin' it back in.”
“Ow.” Buffy winced, and then got up to walk over to him. “Not a problem, though. Left?”
“As it’s the one hangin’ useless at my side, yeh, brilliant deduction, pet.”
“Now, Spike,” Buffy said, as she pushed the sleeve of his tee shirt up over his deltoid muscle. “This is already going to hurt a lot. Do you really want it to hurt even more?”
“Just do it,” he muttered.
“Yick,” she said, as she examined his injured arm. In addition to the dislocated shoulder, Buffy could see deep cuts and gashes around the back of his left hand, and his thumb appeared to be broken. She crossed to the window, pulling the shades closed. “On the bed, Lefty.”
“On the bed. Face up.” Spike staggered forward, and gingerly rolled his body onto the bed. “What, no witty remark? You must be in some real pain.”
He looked up at her, humor visible beneath the pain in his eyes. “I reserve the right to make salacious comments later.”
Buffy grasped Spike’s left wrist firmly in both hands, and lifted his arm slightly off the bed. She held his arm, now perpendicular to his body and elevated at about a twenty-degree angle.
He hissed. “Lewd, obscene, vulgar comments…”
She placed one foot against his ribcage.
“Involving similarities between your current pose and specific pages of the Kama Sutra…”
Buffy fought back a smirk as she began to pull. “This is going to hurt like a-“
“Son of a BITCH!” Spike screamed, as his humerus popped back into the socket of his shoulder.
“Yep,” Buffy grinned. “That’s what it was gonna hurt like. Now, Spike, spill it. What’s with the morning visit?”
Spike sat back up and swung his feet back onto the floor. His face was intent, pleading, even a little desperate.
“I need you to find someone.”
Continued in Part Two