Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and UPN own Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. Joss Whedon and the WB own Angel: the Series. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended. In other words...Don't sue... I'm way past broke.
Distribution: Your Mission ... Anyone else, please ask. (I'll probably say yes <G>)
Rating: Pg-13 (for now anyway... don't think it'll go past R at the most)
Pairing: Willow/Spike(William)
Feedback: Yes! Please let me know what you thought! I need encouragement to finish this! Those of you who have sent feedback... Thank You! The next part is at the beta reader. <G> If you like it let me know... if you think it needs work let me know (but do it nicely or I'll cry and then Spike will have to take care of me... wait... is that a bad thing? <G>)
Author's Notes: Spoilers.... (this is hard <G>) Through Season 4 and some of 5 ... I took what I wanted and tossed the rest. <G>
Author's Note's 2: I have to thank my super beta reader Kaz!
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~Part: 3~
Something stank. That was the first thought Willow had as she began to wake up. The next one was more along the lines of 'what the hell'. She found herself in a room that wasn't hers, in clothing that wasn't hers. "What is going on here?" She whispered as she glanced around the spartan room. There was a large bowl with a pitcher resting in it on a stand across the room. The only other items in the room were a small fireplace with a straight-backed table, the bed and a small trunk.
She checked inside the trunk and found two dresses as well as underclothes. Willow lifted the corset and frowned, "This isn't funny... Spike? Did you kidnap me again!?" She called, almost hopefully. Nothing. No cocky laughter. Nothing. Of course, she hadn't expected him to answer. She headed for the small window and pushed it up. If she thought the inside had smelled bad, she was not prepared for the great outdoors. It almost made her sick to her stomach, and sort of reminded her of the Sunnydale sewers. She leaned out and glanced into the dark and dirty alley. At the end of it she could see a gaslight flickering and in the shadows at the back of the alley she could hear and faintly see two people moving.
There was no way this was Sunnydale. Suddenly, it struck her. This was like a scene from a movie set in Victorian England. "Oh no. I didn't cast a spell. It wasn't me. I didn't do it!" She exclaimed as she pulled back inside. She looked at the chest of clothes and numbly moved toward it. It took her forever to get herself dressed. Who knew a corset was so complicated when you were trying to put it on yourself? Once she was dressed, she slipped on the ill-fitting boots and headed out of the room cautiously.
"Finally decide to wake up?" A young woman's accented voice called as Willow's foot land on the bottom stair.
"I... Um... I wasn't feeling well, but I'm better now," Willow added hurriedly. This girl seemed to know who she was, but she had no idea what was going on. "Uhm, what is the date?"
"What an odd question," the woman replied as she made her way across the room. "Next thing I know you'll be telling me you don't remember my name," she chuckled, shaking her head "Why it's Friday August twenty-fourth, of course."
"Wh- what year?" Willow asked.
The young raven-haired woman stared at her then grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side. "What do you mean ... what year? It's the year of our lord, 1888."
Willow felt her world slant, then flip upside down. "1888?" She breathed as she stared at the woman and leaned against the nearby wall.
"Yes, did you hit your head?" She asked, concern filling her face and voice as she raised a hand toward her.
Willow started to shake her head no, then stilled. "Y-yes. I think so. I'm a little lost."
"Oh you poor thing!" The woman exclaimed, slipping her arm around her waist and leading her toward a nearby table. "Should I call a doctor?"
"No! I mean, no. I'm fine. Just a little confused. I'm fine... honest." The last thing Willow wanted was to be 'treated' by the doctors of this time. The very thought of it made her shudder.
"You arrived here last week from America... do you remember that?" The woman asked.
"Vaguely," she murmured.
"You do remember me," at Willow's blank look she continued, "I'm Gwen... I helped you to find a job. You work at the Ten Bells. Do you remember?" Then almost to herself she added, "We should be going or we'll be late."
"The Ten Bells?" The name struck a cord. The Ten Bells, it had something to do with the Ripper Murders. Didn't those women congregate there or something?
"Yes, it isn't the best place to work but it's certainly better than the alternative," Gwen murmured. "And we'd better go before Jonathan decides he doesn't need us to work for him any longer."
"Oh, sure. I'll just ... follow you," Willow replied as she rose and let Gwen led her to her new job. She tried to remember the faces of the victims of the Ripper. Okay, so she never really looked at those grainy, sometimes sickening images, but she had glanced and she remembered the names. If she saw them, she'd warn them. She had to. Of course she also needed to figure out how she got here and how to get home, but for now she'd see what she could find out about Jack the Ripper.
##
If another smelly, drunk 'gentleman' grabbed her butt, Willow was going to scream and maybe use a little magic to make him regret it. Of course, she had a feeling that would get her in more trouble than she wanted to deal with. She sighed as she delivered the drinks to the table of sailors, wincing when one pinched her butt. "Hands off," she snapped as she batted his hand away and hurried out of reach ignoring the lewd comments he was making as she did.
"Do you still feel alright?" Gwen asked as she stopped beside her at the bar.
"I'd be better if men kept their hands to themselves," Willow replied, "but physically. I'm fine."
"That's good. If--"
"I'll let you know if I start to feel worse or something. I promise." Willow assured her as she loaded her tray and turned back toward the customers. "Oh Polly, don't be like that!" A man's voice called as a woman rose and headed for the door.
Willow didn't get a clear look at the woman. Could it be the Polly Nichols? She wondered. She scanned the crowd and noticed a small group of women sitting in the opposite corner. After a moment, she realized it was very likely that there, at that table, were Jack the Ripper's victims. She made her way to the table and asked if they needed anything.
"No, we're fine, Miss," one of the women replied, winking at her.
"Oh, Liz, she don't have any more money than we do, and if she did wouldn't be wanting your attention."
Willow stilled, Liz. Elizabeth Stride, one of the two victims on September 30th. Now how do you tell someone you know they are going to die... without making them think you're crazy or making them think you're the killer. "I know you will think I'm crazy but... will you, all of you, be very careful over the next few weeks? I have... a bad feeling. A very bad one."
"I'm Mary," the girl with the blondish brown hair told her as she stared,
"What did you mean by ... bad?"
Willow was reluctant to tell them too much, after all if they thought she could 'see' things... who knew what they would be willing to do. Especially if they thought they could make money with it. "I don't know it's just ... an uneasy feeling," she explained.
"WILLOW!" Jonathan's voice called out across the noisy bar, "unless you want to be working with those women, get back to work!"
"Gotta go," Willow murmured turning and heading back to the bar. She hoped those women took her warning to heart. She felt her heart sink when she heard them murmuring about how odd she was.
##
Friday August 31, 1888
Willow had been here for a week and she hadn't had another chance to speak to the Ripper's future victims and tonight she was more jumpy than ever.
Tonight would be the first murder, at least the first one that everyone agreed on. She hadn't seen Polly Nichols, so she hadn't had the opportunity to warn her personally. She only hoped her 'friends' had.
The night seemed a bit busier than usual but it was probably just her imagination. That and there was once again a group of sailors that were drunk and pawing at her. As she finished with one particularly 'hands on' patron, she heard one of the last voices she ever expected to hear in this place and time.
"Bloody hell Angelus," the familiar voice complained, "what are we doing back here?"
Sure, Spike mentioned being in England at the time of the murders, but
she hadn't expected to actually run into him and certainly not Angelus.
She slowly turned toward the voice as an Irish brogue began to reply.