Spike had followed the scent for ten blocks. Ten fucking New York blocks. And still it swirled in the polluted air around him, almost strong enough to see. Something irresistible. Unspoiled, it didn’t belong here in this city.
He should be on the road, riding through the dark on that stolen motorcycle and unfinished business in Sunnydale. But instead he had to stop, he had to find the person that owned this, that created this …
He finally found it in a club. Past the bouncer that accepted a C note for ID, leaned against the bar that was lit from within. A fucking kid. Funky hair, piercings. An open bottle of JD in front of him. Well, at least he had good taste.
“Little young to be drinking, aren’t you?”
Spike grabbed the bottle. The kid glanced over at him with a sneer that rivaled.
“Little not-human to be around so many, aren’t you?”
“You should talk.”
And that’s that it was. The scent. The aroma. The taste in Spike’s mouth that didn’t belong. Not human, not demon, not …
“What are you?”
Dark eyes that weren’t young. That knew too much about the brevity of mortality.
To all who don't know? Zan was Max's doppleganger in Roswell. Someone created just to draw off the *real* Alien's enemies. He died, but not at the hands of who you might expect.