Blew my circuits.

Just what I was hoping to do. t g

Um. I actually read circuits as clitoris for a moment there. Which pretty much sums up my response, I guess.

blushing madly

Deb, gorgeous. Gutting. Literally, in Darla's case.

Fay, you ought to send that piece to Roz. We spent about 90 minutes late-night on the phone Saturday, and I told her about it. So very much guaranteed to make her happy.

because I live in the sainted hope that people are waiting breathlessly for my prose, everything of Nessuno so far since hte last bit. Alexander is at hte mercenary's inn to tell Guglielmo about a message he's brought

The young man dropped his eyes and fidgeted with his goblet. "The presence of Guglielmo il Sanguinante is requested at the Vatican at his soonest convenience. I'm to guide you."

"What, now? I've been out in the sun all day, I don't want to pull on my fancy clothes and go out again. I want a bath and a girl and more wine." He hid his smile at Alexander's discomfort behind his goblet. "Who sent you, anyway?"

"His Excellency Cesare Borgia."

Slowly Guglielmo pulled his feet down. "Cesare sent you." Alexander nodded uneasily. "And what does His Excellency want with me?"

"I don't know, signore. I was told he needed a messenger, I went to his chambers for instructions, he told me to come here and bring you back for a meeting."

He studied the boy carefully. "He asked for me specifically?" Alexander nodded. "Anyone else?"

"No, signore. His Excellency said you were to come alone."

"Oh, he'd like that, I'm sure." Guglielmo watched Alexander as he thought. "Did he mention our little encounter the other day."

"No, signore."

"Stop that. My name's Guglielmo, not signore. Stay here."

He got up headed for the stairs, hoping Isabetta hadn't gotten too far in her "I'm glad you're home" evening greetings.

He heard splashing and laughter when he reached Angelo's door. Maybe a visit to the Vatican was safer than interrupting the pair inside. But dalliance would have to take second place to the extreme inadvisability of going alone into possibly hostile territory without telling anyone. He reluctantly knocked on the door.

"Go away!" Angelo shouted. "I'm busy."

"Business, captain," Guglielmo called back.

An oath, then a bigger splash, then stomping footsteps coming to the door. Angelo pulled the door open, obviously unconcerned about his lack of wardrobe. Behind him, Isabetta squeaked and sank down to neck level in the big wooden tub that sat in the middle of the room. Guglielmo mentally congratulated her for having organized the bringing up and filling of the tub before her lover returned.

"What?" Angelo snapped.

Now that he could lower his voice, Guglielmo was less formal. "The boy was sent by Cesare Borgia, who wants me, specifically, to go up to the palace. Now. Alone."

Angelo frowned. "That's idiocy."

"I agree. But so is refusing."

"What's he want you for?"

"The boy doesn't know. He's waiting to go back with me."

"Alone, eh?" He glanced back thoughtfully at Isabetta and the tub. Isabetta began to pout.

"You can't go," Guglielmo said, fighting a pleased smile. "Me taking one of the men can be shrugged off as wanting a body guard. Me taking you is a threat."

"And so is summoning you at the end of the day." Angelo thought some more. "You'll take one of the men?"

Guglielmo nodded. "Is Thomas around?"

"He's not much less of a liability. But he is out in the stables. He can help pick someone to go with you."

"I'll check with him." He grinned at Angelo as he turned to go. "If I'm not home by morning, check the Tiber."

"Will . . ." Guglielmo turned around completely. Angelo stood in the doorway to watch him. "Be careful."

"Always."

Angelo closed the door and Guglielmo strode down the corridor to his room at the other end, yanking his shirt over his head in the interests of time.

"Alessandro!" he yelled when he reached the railing overlooking the main room.

The boy jumped and stared upwards. "Signore?"

"Out in the stableyard is a man named Thomas Wyndham. Find him and tell him I need someone to go up to the palace with me. Oh, and tell him he can't go."

"But--you're supposed to go alone."

He grinned and tossed his shirt in the general direction of a laundry basket standing in the corridor. "You may have noticed that I'm not the kind of man who generally does as he's told."

"But--"

"Shoo." He began worrying at the knot in the laces that held his hose together. "The longer you take the longer His Excellency has to wait." The laces finally came undone.

Alexander suddenly blushed and scurried for the door. Guglielmo nodded in approval as he pushed down the hose and pulled off his boots before continuing down to his room.

Out in the stableyard, Alexander took a moment to pull himself together. He had truly fallen into a den of iniquity. Loose women and shameless men. He knew things happened up at the Vatican that contradicted everything Father Riccardo at home had told him about how a man of God should behave, but he'd always been able to avoid such things. He hadn't dreamed that obeying His Excellency's orders would give him such a list of things he'd have to tell his confessor.

He knew to avert his eyes from the whores in the streets, but that girl, Isabetta, had seemed so friendly and pleasant that it had taken him several moments to realize how fascinatingly low-cut her bodice was. And he shouldn't have watched the way she and Captain Angelo, well, greeted each other.

Shaking himself, he forced his mind back to his instructions. Find the man Thomas Wyndham, tell him Il Sanguinante needed someone to accompany him to the palace in direct contradiction of the orders His Excellency had sent. Alexander sighed in frustration. Giuseppe didn't have days like this down in the archives.

A group of men sat in the shade of the stables, drinking wine and tossing dice. One of them looked up at Alexander's approach. "Looking for something, little priest?" he asked in a mostly friendly voice.

"Yes, I'm looking for Thomas Wyndham."

The man farthest back in the shadows stepped forward. "I am he. What do you want?"

Alexander fought to keep from fidgeting. This man was making no pretensions to being friendly. "Signore Guglielmo told me--"

"Guglielmo sent you?" Wyndham interrupted.

"Yes, he did." It was getting very hard to be polite with all the stress he was under. "He wanted me to tell you that he's going up to the Palace and he wants someone to go with him. And he told me to tell you that you can't go."

The other men gasped a little, but Alexander didn't care. Thomas Wyndham raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon? I'm not *allowed* to go?"

Once upon a time, Alexander might have had the sense to be nervous at the man's tone of voice. "That's what he said. You're not allowed to go. Actually, no one's supposed to go with him. Those were the instructions, he's supposed to go alone."

"Ah. One of those situations." Wyndham looked at the other men. "Well, gentlemen? Who doesn't have plans this evening?"

The men muttered together. "Maurice is drunk. Already? What about Paolo? Out with Jeanne."

Wyndham stood patiently, though one foot did tap occasionally. "Well?"

A dark, scarred man stepped forward. "Looks like it's my turn, Thomas."

"Thank you, Giancarlo." Wyndham looked at Alexander. "Did Guglielmo say how long he'd be?"

"I--he was taking off his clothes right before I came out here." Alexander knew he was blushing badly. "How long does he take to change clothes?"

The man was definitely fighting a grin. "Depends on if he has a better reason to stay out of his clothes than putting on other ones."

The mercenaries snickered, and Alexander wished he hadn't been running late for Maestro Bramante's class when Cesare Borgia's servant had come looking for messenger. He ran over the parts of a classical Greek entablature in his mind to distract himself.

Guglielmo came out the door, dressed in his black and red finery. His black velvet hat was crooked, he was wiggling his feet to get the boots settled correctly, and his scabbarded sword was tucked under his right arm. "Sandro, tie this." He held out his left arm with the dangling ties for his cuffs.

Fighting a growl, Alexander obeyed. "My name is Alexander."

"I doubt that's what the priest in your home village said at your baptism," Guglielmo grinned. He juggled his sword into his left hand and held out his right arm to be tied.

When did this man stop being a notorious cold-blooded killer and become an obnoxious annoyance? "Are you ready?" He cinched the right-hand knot down as tight as he could.

Guglielmo grinned at Thomas Wyndham. "Am I ready? Who did you find?"

Wyndham quietly re-tied the right-hand cuff into something looser. "Giancarlo's going with you. Did you want to take horses?"

"Better not. I'd want to take someone to watch the horses as well, and that's pushing the numbers. Besides, I doubt Brother Sandro can ride."

Mustn't hit the dangerous mercenary, mustn't hit the dangerous mercenary. "I can too ride," Alexander said as calmly as he could.

"Plow horses don't count." He patted Alexander's shoulder as he looked Giancarlo over. "You'll do. You have your sword?"

One of the men in the stable tossed out a sheathed long sword and belt. Giancarlo caught it and strapped it onto his back. "Yes."

Guglielmo slid his sword into its spot on his right hip, checked the dagger on his left hip, then tugged back his left sleeve to check the dagger strapped to that wrist. "L

oh, so close.

"Let's go then."

stoopid post limits

Can't wait for the next part!

Spike and the Borgias. Heheheheheh.

this won't be to everyone's taste, but what the heck. I've learned never to argue with my muse when she gets insistent. This is what I've been doing all day when I should have been focussed more on work.

From Hell's Heart I Spit at Thee

The lair of a powerful wizard on the night of a pogrom. Two dead bodies, both wizards, one a warrior, both dead because they ultimately understimated the power of an opponent.

One pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps striding across the blood-smeared floor. A woman with a scarf around her throat stops, then crouches next to the body of the warrior mage.

"Shithead," Lilah says fondly. "I wonder if you're going to be spending time with me, now. I'll have to check your contract."

She rests her fingers on Wesley's cheek, scrapes her nails across the stubble on his chin. Then, grimacing at the blood, she checks for his wallet. Pulls it from his hip pocket, hesitates, then opens it.

The autographed dollar bill is still there. Smiling, Lilah pulls it out.

"Don't worry, lover. You'll like this." She carefully dips her finger in a bit of still-liquid blood, then draws a symbol on the bill. Debates drawing a mustache on Washington, then decides that levity is inadvisable at this stage. "Lindsay isn't the only one with a knack for runes."

She begins to stand, then pauses again. Leans over to kiss Wesley farewell. Smells Fred. "At least I got there first." Kisses him, gives it a little tongue for old times sake, then rises and walks away.

A rainy alley behind a decrepit hotel. A vampire with a soul kneels on the ground, ignoring both the hovering hordes of hell at the end of the alley and the shell of the ancient god at his shoulder. His arms cradle dust that is still sifting slowly to the ground. The dying hulk of a dragon flaps and convulses not far away.

"Don't leave me like this," he whispers. "I don't know how do this without you. You're my Yoda, man."

"What is this Yoda you keep muttering about?" Illyria asks. "We are the last ones. I wish to continue killing."

Spike ignores her, still staring at the last of Angel sifting through his fingers, becoming mud on the ground.

Crisp footsteps coming along the alley. The well-dressed woman with the umbrella and the scarf around her neck gazes down. "Oh, gosh, did I miss the big farewell scene? Darn that cross-town traffic."

Slowly Spike rises to his feet, humanity flowing away to show fangs. "You must be the next challenger on the fight card. Let's see what you've got, bitch." He clenches his fists slowly, grinding the last ashes into his skin.

"Take it easy, Junior. I'm a lawyer, not a fighter." She holds out her hand. "Lilah Morgan." She smiles more as Spike growls.

"You are she," Illyria says quietly.

Lilah glances over, frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Welsey fought sleep. When he lost, he would call out the name of this shell I carry. Twice he called out the name Lilah. He threatened me with an ax when I asked who Lilah was. You are she."

"Yes, I am," Lilah says after a very long pause.

Spike eyes are on the blood and dust streaked pavement. "Does all this natter have a point? There's dying that needs to be finished." Slowly he raises his head. "You'd be one of theirs, I imagine." He nods at the waiting horde.

"Yes, I would. I'm supposed to be pointing out to you the futility of your cause and reminding you as you die that nothing you've done will have any lasting impact." She gazes over her shoulder at the monsters. "Which makes this ever so much more interesting."

Illyria steps closer. "You reek of deceit."

"And if Chanel could bottle that, they'd make another fortune." Lilah pulls something out of her pocket and holds it out. Eventually Spike takes it, unfolds it, and stares down at the dollar bill.

"What is this?" he asks. He takes a deep breath. "This is Wesley's blood."

Lilah's smile becomes satisfied and cruel. "That, my dear William the Bloody and Illyria, is a bomb. Wesley's name, Wesley's blood, a rune to bind a wizard's power to an object. Have either of you ever heard of a Final Strike?"

Spike straightens, steps back, looks at the object in his hand in awe. Illyria takes it from him, studies it.

"The power of a mage, released all at once with his death. But he is dead already."

"Um, well, duh. But his power isn't. Not yet. Destroy that, and it should tidy everything up quite nicely." She nods back at the waiting horde.

"Why?" Spike asks suspiciously. "You're one of theirs. Why bring this down on them?"

Lilah looks away. "I owe him. He tried to save me, poor silly bastard. He'd want to save you, if he could." She frowns at the black man's body lying near the wall, surrounded by slain monsters. "I was hoping some of you would last longer than others, though." She glances down at the ground, quietly moves her foot, and twists her shoe in a small pile of dust.

Illyria nods. "Whoever destroys this will be at the center of the strike."

"Yes." Lilah reaches for the dollar.

"No." Illyria steps away from Lilah's outstretched hand.

"Look, I'm already dead. And I'll keep coming back. It's in my contract. The Senior Partner's will be pissed at me, of course, but that'll wear off in a millennia or so. Your pretty shell is not likely to survive, cupcake." She smiles at that.

Illyria frowns. "Are you related to the green man? He addresses people as food items as well. No matter. I am weary of this plane of existence. If my brother gods have left this plane, I shall as well, and search for my powers elsewhere."

Spike glares at Illyria and reaches for the bill, which she pulls out of his reach. "I've got no reason to hang around either, Blue."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Lilah glares at both of them. "Fine, far be it from me to interrupt such beloved death wishes. I'll just walk away and let the boys finish playing with you. And when you're both pate, they'll go back to their little hell dimension, and the Senior Partners will file this under Temporary Interruption of Service and go on like nothing has happened."

"We knew that coming in," Spike says quietly.

"Well, that's dumb. Come on, Spikey, wouldn't you really rather be able to sit in a bar somewhere and tell how you kicked Wolfram and Hart in the balls and lived to tell the tale?" She grins at his snarl. "It's so poetic."

He narrows his eyes, then looks uncertain.

Illyria contemplates the bill. "For all of us to die is wasteful and serves only the satisfaction of our foes. I do not wish them to be satisfied." She smiles her vengeance of gods smile. "It would please me to confront them and rain destruction upon their heads."

Spike stares at his hands, at the blood and ash. "He had it all planned," he whispers. "And we agreed."

Lilah sighs and checks her watch. "Look, if you want to stay and mingle your dust with his, or whatever vampires say, that's up to you. I've done my bit." She shrugged and turned away. "When you're gone, we can finally erase Angel from history. I mean, it's not like anyone gives a damn anymore. Look at your former buddies in Europe. They figured he went bad and he's not worth caring about." She smiles over her shoulder at him. "They're probably right. Good-bye, Spike. Maybe we'll make a footnote out of you somewhere."

The snarl is every dangerous predator that ever hunted the night. "William the Bloody is nobody's sodding footnote. The Scourge of Europe does not get tidied off into some file stashed in the back of drawer."

"He will be when we get done with him." Lilah tsks at herself. Just because she's on the commuter route from Hell and back doesn't mean antagonizing vampires was smart. Still, she needed an antagonized vampire at the moment. "When the last person who know someone dies, that person becomes just another story in history. And we all know who writes the history."

"We'll see who writes what." Spike's yellow eyes narrow just a bit. "I'd still like to know why you give a damn."

She shrugs. "Maybe eternity was getting boring." She glances at the waiting horde, which is getting louder. "The natives are restless. I'd leave now if I were you."

Spike straightens his shoulders, settles the battle-tattered duster. "Think anyone will follow me?"

"Depends on how annoying you make yourself."

He laughs. "I'll watch my back." He looks at the dust on the ground, and his smile fades. His eyebrows tighten hard, thn he shakes himself. "Have fun, Blue." He reaches into a pocket of the duster and pulls out his lighter. "I imagine fire would be the best way to do this."

Illyria catches the tossed lighter and gazes back at Spike. "You would have been an amusing pet."

"Thanks. Probably." One more look around, a curt nod to Lilah, and he disappears into the night.

The monsters howl and begin moving.

"Time to leave," Lilah says. "Good-bye, Illyria."

Illyria is still, then her head tilts sharply. "You loved him. Wesley," she adds as Lilah starts to speak. "You loved Wesley."

Lilah's smile is hard and tight. "It isn't always puppies and walks in the rain, cupcake. Sometimes it's best to say it with corpses."

The tilt steepens, but Illyria says nothing more. She hold the dollar bill in one hand, then flicks the lighter on. Lilah nods and heads away, just as the flame begins to lick the corner of the dollar, lighting Wesley's name.

The clouds above growl and swirl. Lilah begins to run, and she grins as the rain comes down harder. When the lighting slams down a hard-won block behind her, she laughs and blam