Spike sat in the depth of the shadows, feeling the anxiety of the occupants of the trench. Smokes passed from man to man, each one looked the same and smelt the same. Grey on grey, feet sliding on liquid mud, and Hell knew what else!

It was important to remember whom he sought, a single man, who held the key to his destiny with a distant descendant.

Bombing and gunfire spat to a silence and the men in the trench readied at the flimsy ladders. Whistles blew and they launched over the top eager to be out of the mud and slime; to land on the mud and wire, as the enemy cut down the first ranks.

Spike jerked and shuddered, the hot blood on his face unfamiliar after the weeks of cold rain. His fingers gripped the stolen greatcoat round his slim frame and he ventured out into the cold twilight.

The stars hid in silent shame as the moon struggled to rise above the gloom of the battlefield. The mournful cries of the wounded assaulted Spike's ears. He searched; his eagle eyes picking out the heat vapour from live bodies and the silver caste of the dead.

He saw his brethren gathering at the battles edge, scavengers all. He stood straight and tall, striding out over the field, over English and German shattered bone and blood; declaring to all that this carnage was his to pillage. The ragged band of vampires melted into the night and Spike resumed his search...

Willow's hair fell over Spike's head and he jumped, looking into her eyes and saw the gentle amusement there.

"Spike, you've been asleep. Everyone's had drinks; I've made you some chocolate. "

She handed him the steaming mug and he thanked her. Sleep? He shouldn't have slept! They needed him...didn't they? What were they researching?

Giles' spectacles dangled from the corner of his mouth, as he followed the text of an ancient tome with his forefinger, tapping it every so often and nodding sagely. "Willow, this prophecy is to do with your family. Your ancestors were protected by a "guardian angel. " Your great-grandfather survived a gunshot to the head in World War 1... and your grandfather escaped from a gas chamber in World War 2. Not only that, a great many other German Jews escaped with him, on a train." Giles sounded astonished. He looked up at Spike to see the vampire smiling in silent satisfaction.

Giles didn't like that smile; something about the blond made his staking fist ache.

Spike's eyes closed again in sleep and soon the sound of soft purring accompanied the research.

Someone crawled toward him from the English camp. He lifted the frail body from the slippery ground and filled his lungs with the scent of the man, the right man.

He shifted the body in an easy lift and set off for the German lines. The flash of the shot caught his eye and he moved his hand to protect his precious burden. The bullet glanced through his hand and lodged in the soldier's skull.

Spike flew over the ground, hurdling the barbed wire and mines of the battlefield and slithered into the trench that bore a tattered Red Cross symbol. After hammering on the makeshift door, Spike left the man at the threshold when he heard footsteps from the other side. He whirled away from the door and leapt up to the field once more. The moon had risen in the night sky and Spike presented a perfect target. He was shot and fell head first into the cold grey mud.

He heard voices. Male and female. Giles and Willow? He roused himself and hoped his head wouldn't fall from his shoulders. The needles of pain concentrated at the back of his head and he realised his fangs were drawn over his lips in hunger. They were too close...warm blood hummed a slice away from his canines and he salivated.

"Spike! When did you last feed?" Giles barked the question.

A question, that meant he had to think. Feed, he needed blood. Hot, rich and calming.

"Willow..." he whispered.

Hot, steaming blood on his lips. Snarling his pleasure, Spike closed his fangs over the rim of the cup; it broke and he stared blankly at his chest as the red pool of life spread and cooled on his skin. His head rolled back and he smiled.

Oh, to bathe in blood again!

Poland, October 1943

Silent people filled the truck. Spike could hardly detect individual heartbeats. All followed the same rhythm, a funeral dirge for a doomed race. He studied each face searching for the forebear of his mate. One man from the farthest corner of the cattle truck locked his gaze and all other's faded. The man was old with a scar on his forehead. Spike inclined his head and smiled a greeting.

The old man spoke with those nearest to him and the agitated talk spread through the truck until silence fell and all eyes turned to look at Spike. He smiled and lifted his index finger to his lips. The atmosphere had changed in the truck. The people in this truck had a protector.

"Spike? Do you want some more?" Willow asked, anxiously.

Spike blinked, he was alone with Willow in the kitchen. "Yes, please... I'm sorry I broke the cup. I've not had money to buy blood." She glanced nervously over her shoulder. He heard her heart rate increase and smiled. Would she offer?

"Spike, how long is it since you've had human blood?" Willow's white teeth caught her lip with the boldness of her question.

Spike sighed. "A long time." He hung his head to disguise his grin; she's going to offer... suddenly her wrist appeared under his chin.

He jerked his head away and snarled. "No!" She hadn't shocked him by what she'd done. He had shouted to stop his fangs from puncturing her and blowing his cover.

Willow's small hand cupped his chin and forced him to face her. "It's alright Spike, I want you to do it. You won't be hurting me."

He shook his head. "It will hurt you, Willow, I don't think I can bite you without it hurting anymore. I'm out of practice. Thank you Willow...But no. Get me some butchers blood, that's good enough for the likes of me."

She turned to leave then hesitated at the knife block. She grabbed a sharp knife and drew it over her wrist, wincing in pain as the drops of blood fell staining the floor. Spike flew to her side and caught her before she fell from blood loss. She lifted her hand weakly to his lips and he fought briefly before applying his mouth to her wound.

The strong coppery sweetness of her blood had not changed down the centuries. Willow's practice of magic had enhanced its maturity. He tasted the ancient lineage and knew he'd chosen well. His arm closed around her shoulders, lifting Willow up to stand beside him. He opened his eyes and looked into her face. The delicate bloom to her cheek echoed the soft rose of her lips, parted in ecstasy to show her even teeth that Spike longed to feel clamped on his throat in blood driven madness.

Spike slid his cool fingers beneath her blouse at her collarbone and caressed his mark.

Willow sighed and moaned, moving her hand to the back of his head to force his mouth closer onto the wound.

Spike groaned and felt his fangs descend and he nibbled at her flesh. He licked the wound closed and raised his head. His human face showed no malice though his golden eyes glowed, as once more he knew the thrum of living Rosenberg blood in his veins.

Willow gasped as he captured her wrists behind her back, holding her close to him he bared the shoulder where his mark nestled and scraped his fangs over the raised pale skin.

Spike's lips were silken against her shoulder, his fangs like silver needles raising the heat in her body to dangerous heights. He spoke and his voice was liquid honey. "Who gave you this mark, my lovely?"

"You did." Willow sighed.

"Who protects you?" Spike murmured.

"You do." Willow whispered. "You always have."

"I always will." He passed his palm over her eyes and released her hands. Willow stood still in his thrall while he cleaned the floor of blood.

The locks were drawn and as the truck doors flew open, the cool night air ruffled the refugees' meagre clothing. Soldiers drew them out of the truck and marched them over the frostbitten ground to the low brick building in the distance. Someone broke from the crowd, despite Spike's barked order to stay within the group. A rifle butt smashed down on the back of Spike's head. Gunfire spat and found the fleeing man.

Spike woke to many anxious faces looking at him. He snarled and the crowd backed off. He leapt to his feet and took in the thick walls, and pipes at ceiling height.

The "showers" rained down invisible noxious death, and expunged the "ethnic." But not today...

The vampire prowled round the perimeter of their death cell, his amber eyes trained on the pipes' poison path. At last, he had traced the line to the end and rerouted the gas pipe so it vented to the outside. They were safe.

Spike pounded out the stonework at the end of the building and made a hole large enough for their escape. For the first time, there was an edge of excitement in the gathering. Spike became immune to the whispered thanks, as the last of the Jews, his first saved, was the last to exit.

The prisoners joyfully clambered aboard the train. The rabbi, on the footplate felt sure the Lord would forgive this one violation of the Sabbath.

Spike stood like a dark sentinel against the brightening sky, he could not go with them on the rest of their journey, but was sure that he had saved the Rosenberg line from extinction.

Giles spoke to him. "Spike... You're in the prophecy too." The awed Watcher continued. "You saved the Rosenberg family, countless times. How can I thank you? Willow is alive because of your deeds. I...I didn't know how much she meant to me. But now-" He shook his head. "Thank you seems such a tiny word."

Spike studied his unexpected rival for Red's affections. He decided to kill Giles and blame it on Angelus. His head tilted to one side as if listening to an internal voice. Drusilla wouldn't stand for that. Well, kill her first, because she was going to kill the Slayer, but the Slayer wouldn't like a dead Watcher so kill her as well. Kill them all and bathe in their blood. Like he did after the train left from Sobibor.

Spike remembered hot, steaming blood on and in his body, dripping from his lips and fangs.

"Thank you is enough, Watcher." And then he smiled.