Updated

It begins where these sorts of things always do--in the night time, with a creature at home in the shadows meditating on passion and obsession and madness and the warm seductions of the dark. Or, to be less Bulwer-Littonish, with a vampire lurking outside the home of his target, wondering what it would take to lure said target out to play.

Spike was well aware of his tendency towards overwrought melodrama, especially when he had too much time on his hands. Sometimes, though, it was amusing to paint extravagant mental pictures. Like Buffy suddenly turning to him and crying, "You're everything I want in a man! You're gorgeous, strong, dangerous. You'll help me look after my family, and I bet you're a better lay than Angel, too."

OK, so he had a rich fantasy life. Sue him.

Then there were the other pictures: the look in Xander Harris' eyes changing from deep distrust to cautious intrigue. Something tragic happening to those wretched clothes of his. A sidelong glance that told of thoughtfulness instead of disgust.

It could happen, and there were better odds of that happening than his Buffy-fantasy coming true. Which was why Spike was lounging on the roof of the building across the street from Harris' apartment, hoping that tonight Harris would forget to either close the curtains before his shower or not wear a towel in the privacy of his own home. It was too early in the evening to occupy the small balcony outside Harris' window. That was reserved for sleep-watching and sleep-whispering--which was coming along well, come to think of it. The boy twitched very pleasantly when Spike whispered to him out of the dark. Once there might even have been the return whisper of Spike's name. If only Spike had a way of finding out what Harris was dreaming of.

He idly twisted the amber stud that pierced the top of his right ear. Time to poke Ripper about a permanent fix to the chip. One of the reasons for their LA trip was to check on surgeons, psychic and mundane. The mundane ones all heard what the Initiative doctor had said and were reluctant to second-guess someone with first-hand knowledge. The psychic surgeons were less pessimistic, but the ones willing to work on a vampire were all over on the sleazy side. Not that Spike really objected to sleaze, but if he paid someone he wanted them to stay bought, at least until he decided to kill them and get his money back.

The best of the psychic surgeons all mentioned being under contract and that they'd need to get approval for independent work. When they mentioned the name Wolfram & Hart, Ripper had politely broken off talks and retreated. Something Buffy had learned from Angel made the ex-watcher think a little harder about getting involved with a demonic law firm. Still, if the price of getting dechipped was a bit of cooperation with an organization that apparently existed for the primary purpose of bothering Angel, Spike was willing to chat terms.

From the apartment below him came the sound of the late TV news signing off. Spike straightened and stretched. Xander would be heading to bed soon, virtuously getting his sleep so he could be fresh for work in the morning. Depending on how many beers he'd downed while watching the news, he should be out cold in ten minutes.

He easily dropped the two stories to the ground and sauntered across the street to Xander's building. The wind shifted, and he paused. Demon in the area. One of the big, dumb, break stuff up sort. No worries, so long as it found somewhere else to play--

Wood smashed with happy crunching sounds somewhere nearby. Somewhere quite nearby, like in Xander's building, on Xander's floor.

"I don't bloody well think so," Spike snarled, and began to run.

Xander stared at the remains of his front door, then at the large, blue-green figure standing in the doorway. The tentacles on the creature's head coiled up tightly in what looked like chagrin.

"I'm sorry," it--he?--said. "I don't know my own strength at times."

"What?" Xander finally managed.

"I didn't mean to announce myself quite so violently."

"What?" That still covered useful ground, and he wasn't getting a good answer yet.

The demon nodded. "Of course, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Reinhart, and I'm here to face you in honorable single combat for the love of the fair Anyanka."

And still the explanation makes no more sense than the questions. "Honorable . . ."

Reinhart shrugged. "I understand your confusion. I was simply going to come here and rip out your pathetic human lungs for daring to consort with someone as fine and glorious as Anyanka, but she has told so many stories of your courage that I couldn't simply remove you as impertinent human scum. Anyanka believes you are worthy of her, and so I must prove myself even more worthy by destroying you honorably."

"Destroy me . . ."

Reinhart reached through the doorway and poked Xander lightly in the chest. He only staggered a little. "There, the challenge has been given. I await your convenience."

OK, you've just been challenged to a duel to the death by a seven-foot-tall blue-green guy with muscles in his fingers that would make any beer can crusher proud. Quick, grasshopper, what do you do? Xander took a deep breath.

"So. A duel."

Reinhart smiled broadly. "Yes, honorable single combat."

"Right." Xander felt his survival instincts--along with the memories of all those Three Musketeers movies--kick in. "If you're the challenger, that means I get the choice of weapons and time and location, right?"

"Weapons?" Reinhart looked at his hand, then flexed his fingers. Claws popped out. "Why do we need weapons?" he asked in honest bafflement.

Xander held up his own hands. "Humans don't come with claws."

"You don't? How do you fight, then?"

"We use weapons."

"Oh. Well, then, a weapon is fair. I'll wait here while you fetch one."

"That's OK, you leave me your number, and I'll get back to you as soon as I've found a weapon. I'd hate to make you wait."

Reinhart beamed. "That's very considerate of you, but there's no bother. I had no other plans for tonight."

Well, Xander definitely had plans other than dying. "We need, uh, witnesses, right? Let me call somebody." Like a Slayer or something.

Reinhart sighed. "If you must. As beings of honor, though, the word of the survivor as to what happened should be sufficient."

"You'd think, but standards are slipping everywhere. 'Scuse me a sec."

As he started to turn, Xander thought he saw someone standing in the shadows down the hall. He was distracted, though, by Anya suddenly appearing behind him in the living room.

"Reinhart, what are you doing?" she demanded.

Reinhart hit his knees so hard the floor shook. "Fair Anyanka!"

"Hmph. Halfrek said you were coming here to kill Xander. You can't do that, I won't let you." She smiled at Xander. "Hi, Xander."

"Hi, honey."

"I did not come here to kill your Xander," Reinhart explained.

Anya relaxed. "Oh, good. Halfrek was talking so fast I must have misunderstood her."

"I came here to challenge this human to honorable single combat in your name."

She stared at him for several moments, then turned to Xander. "He did?"

Xander nodded. "'Fraid so."

"Men." She blinked and looked back at Reinhart. "For me?"

"For you, Anyanka. You have an attachment to this human, and I cannot in honor woo you while he exists. Therefore I shall remove him from my path."

Xander did not like the way Anya was fighting a smile. She shook herself out of it, though. "Well, I don't want you honorably single combating my Xander. You'd smoosh him, and I like him unsmooshed."

Reinhart sighed happily. "You are as kind-hearted as you are beautiful. However, the human has nobly accepted my challenge. I'd hate for you to be upset by our struggle, so perhaps you could go someplace more pleasant and await the survivor."

Anya glared at Xander. "You accepted his challenge?"

Xander tried very hard to keep up with events. "I didn't accept anything. He just showed up and I've been, well, maneuvering matters."

Reinhart began to frown. "But, sir, you have established the weapons and the need for witnesses. Why are we deciding these things if you haven't accepted my challenge?"

"Um . . ."

Anya took Xander's arm. "Excuse us," she said to Reinhart, and she towed Xander into the bedroom.

As soon as the bedroom door closed behind them, Xander looked round hopefully in case he'd left the cordless phone in here. "Damn, not here."

Anya started pacing. "You accepted a challenge from Reinhart? Are you nuts?"

"He was just going to rip out my lungs for being an impertinent human who doesn't deserve to be anywhere near you."

"He said that?"

"Dammit, Ahn, don't look so happy about that."

She managed to lose the grin. "Sorry."

"The only reason he decided on a duel was because all the stories you've been telling convinced him I'm honorable--for a human. What have you been telling them?"

"Nothing but the truth. They wanted to know how I became a demon again. I told them how you saved my life. They were very impressed."

Xander had to look away from the love and pride on Anya's face. Did they all sit around some break room somewhere, the vengeance demons, swapping tales of creative punishments and making plans for the weekend? Did demons get weekends?

"So--is Reinhart a vengeance demon?"

"No, he's an accountant."

"There are demon accountants?"

"You seem surprised."

Xander shrugged it off. "We've got work to do here. Why don't you go distract Reinhart while I call Buffy."

"Why Buffy?"

"I've got a demon at my front door threatening to rip out my lungs. Of course I'm going to call in the professionals."

"But--it's none of her business."

"None of her business?"

"You agreed to the duel. You can't drag the Slayer into it."

Xander went over and put his hands on her shoulders. "Ahn, I'm not facing that guy in single combat. Him, big demon with claws. Me, squishy human."

Anya nodded soberly. "Yes. Human. I keep forgetting for some reason." She frowned in thought for several moments. "Still, you accepted a duel with a demon. There are rules. Witnesses are one thing, but it would go against a lot of rules if you pulled the Slayer into demonic business."

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Then they can just deal with the rule breaking." He went to the nightstand to check for the phone. "It's not like I care what demons think of me."

Several seconds' silence went by. "Xander?"

"Hm?"

"Does the not caring apply to all demons?"

"Pretty much, why--"

He turned and jumped. Anyanka, Patron of Scorned Women, gazed back at him, sad yellow eyes looking out of a heavily veined face. Tears grew in her eyes.

"Say my name," she whispered.

"Anya."

She shook her head. "My real name."

"Ah--Anyanka."

"And I am?"

That one was easy. "The woman I love."

A smile flickered there and gone. "And what else?"

He felt his stomach go into freefall. "A demon." She nodded sadly. "What I said, it doesn't apply to you--"

"It should. Because that's what I am, a demon. Who sometimes looks like a woman. You gave that back to me. But part of you wishes you hadn't."

A tear escaped, following the line of one of those blue veins. Anya wasn't supposed to cry. Demons weren't supposed to cry. Those faces weren't supposed to look so sad. Xander took a step towards her, but his sub-brain shrieked "Stay back! Demon!" He hesitated.

She closed her eyes. "You hate looking at this face, don't you."

"I'm sor--"

"Don't, please. Right now I still love you. Don't make that change."

Her human face flowed back, and Xander hurried to pull her into his arms. He chanted his apologies in his head, where vengeance demons couldn't hear. Anya wrapped her arms around his waist.

"It was a lovely fantasy, wasn't it?" she said. "That somehow we might make this work? I'd hoped . . ."

He rested his face on her hair. "Me, too."

He leaned down to kiss her. Partway through the kiss, she let her face morph back into its demon form. He jumped, just a little, but didn't let her go. With this being good-bye and the last time, somehow he didn't mind so much.

Anya pulled away first, and she briskly wiped the tears off her face, then off Xander's. "There is a way to get out of the duel. You tell Reinhart that you concede the point, and . . ."

He nodded. "I let him have you."

She drew herself up. "You let him have the chance to have me. This only gives him the opportunity to woo me. And I take a lot of wooing." Xander cocked his head knowingly at her. "Sometimes."

"Will I still get to see you?" he asked wistfully.

"We shouldn't have sex anymore." She sighed. "I will miss that."

"I--actually wasn't thinking about sex."

"Have you been sick?"

"Ahn . . ." He swallowed hard. "I'm going to miss hearing you talk." She leaned against him, and he pretended he didn't hear her sniffing. He hoped she was pretending the same thing.

"I'll still be at the Magic Box," she finally said. "If you ever need something magicky. Or I might need new shelves or something."

"Or something."

This time Xander pulled away. The human Anya was back, but it was time to stop thinking of her as his Anya. "We'd best deal with Reinhart."

The big demon got off his knees at Anya's reappearance, but he looked very confused when Xander told him there was no need for a duel.

"You are giving the fair Anyanka up?" Reinhart frowned. "Without a fight? Are you spurning her? Or are you merely a coward?"

"I can still get that weapon, dude," Xander glared. "This is Anyanka, Patron Saint of Scorned Women. Do you think anyone gets away with spurning her?"

"No, of course not," Reinhart said quickly. "Then, you are afraid to fight me."

Anya smacked him in the arm. "Don't you call him a coward. He stood up to an army and to Glory. If he doesn't want to fight, then he has a very good reason."

Despite his uneasiness at hearing her talk about Glory, Xander couldn't help smiling at her. "Thank you, Anya."

Reinhart looked back and forth between the two of them. "Then--you are free, Anyanka? You are no longer tied to this pathetic human?"

"Hey!"

Anya looked wistfully at Xander. "No. I'm no longer tied. And he's not pathetic."

Reinhart straightened triumphantly and looked at Xander, but whatever gloating remark he was planning faded at the stare the human was giving back.

"She may not be tied to me," Xander said firmly, "but I hear one word, one syllable, that you are not treating her the way she deserves, and this duel is back on. And you won't want to put large bets against the impertinent human scum."

For several moments, Reinhart only gaped, then he bowed in acceptance. Xander nodded back.

Anya checked her watch. "Gosh, I have to get back to work. I left this Argentinian businessman dangling by his large intestine--"

"Anya!" Xander protested.

She smiled at him, took half an automatic step towards him, then quickly turned to Reinhart. "I'll see you back at the office." She disappeared.

Reinhart was left staring at the place she'd been. "But . . ."

Xander had to laugh. "Welcome to the magical fun house ride that is Anya. Good luck." And that hadn't been walking on broken glass to get that phrase out.

"Yes." He shook himself. He studied Xander. "I now see why she considered you worthy of her. Farewell, honorable human." He bowed again, then disappeared himself.

Xander stared at the hallway and at his smashed front door. "Yeah, honor. That and three bucks gets you a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Doesn't fix my door."

He contemplated getting his tools, but shrugged and headed off to bed. Maybe he'd get to sleep before the shock wore off.

Out on the landing just down from Xander's apartment, Spike smirked as he finally lit a cigarette. "Day by day," he murmured, "bit by bit, another piece of your soul gets chipped away. Not far to go now."

Whistling softly, he headed down the stairs. Let Xander have the wretched night's sleep he had coming. Spike could wait.

***

Buffy checked her class list as she strolled the cemetery. She heard faint movement in the bushes every now and then, but whenever she looked, she was alone. Maybe she should be checking hunting grounds, not spawning places. Willow hadn't mentioned any recent burials of suspect corpses, so Buffy didn't have any reason to stay in the cemetery. Even Sunnydale people knew that strolling was best done in parks and streets.

Visitors, on the other hand . . .

"Good evening, Mr. Travers."

She turned and looked at a nearby grove of trees. Quentin Travers stepped out, chagrined.

"Good evening, Miss Summers. What did I do wrong?"

"The branches kept catching in your clothes, you're not quite in good enough shape so you're breathing too hard, plus I could hear your goons following you." She glanced at other bushes. "They are yours, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are. Though I prefer the term 'colleagues' to goons'." He whistled briefly, and his colleagues came out of hiding, crossbows ready. Travers turned back to Buffy. "I would have sworn you were distracted by your reading."

"We call it multi-tasking. I can listen for nasties while picking out my fall classes."

Travers shook his head, smiling. "You have no idea how truly special you are, do you?"

"Huh? I mean, excuse me?"

"A Slayer at University. It's unheard of. There have been potential Slayers who have gone, of course, but never an active Slayer. Till you. I don't know how you manage."

"If you ask my mom, she'll point to my grades and say I don't. Manage." She thought seriously for a moment. "My mom's always fought for me to have a normal life, and for her that means college. She still thinks I'm going to have a future. And just in case she's right, I'm going along with her."

"A remarkable woman, your mother. I'd like to meet her, if I may."

Buffy stopped walking. "That--is a bad idea. She doesn't much like you guys. I think it has something to do with your letting her get kidnapped by an insane vampire after you'd convinced my Watcher to take away my powers. I still have some issues about that as well."

Travers nodded. "I understand completely. However, I would like a chance to mend matters. If nothing else, I still would like to speak to everyone about the events last spring."

She frowned. "You aren't expecting everyone who was involved in that to be available, right?"

"Yes, I am aware that two of the main players are unlikely to give formal statements. Still, you and the others should be able to give a good account." He thought a moment. "The restaurant of my hotel provides adequate meals. Perhaps you and the others could be my guests the evening after tomorrow? Eight o'clock?"

Her mother's lectures on etiquette kicked in. "I don't know if the others have plans, but I'll let them know."

"Excellent. I shall see you then." He nodded and turned to go.

"Mr. Travers, may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly, Miss Summers."

"Why are you still here? When I saw you a couple of weeks ago, I thought you were in a hurry to get things--taken care of."

Travers' mouth tightened. "Yes, I thought matters would be resolved by now as well. There have been complications."

"Like what?"

"Are you sure you want to know? Considering what we're planning, after all."

Giles' final death . . . "Maybe not details. But what kind of problems?"

The look he gave her was faintly proud. "I'd hoped we could take him by surprise, but I haven't even seen him yet. We seem to keep missing him. I don't have enough men with me to contemplate going to their lair, but London is reluctant to send reinforcements."

"Why? I thought this was a priority."

"It is. The Council, however, has heard disquieting rumors of some sort of unrest among older vampires in Europe. Something political."

Buffy stopped and stared at him. "Vampires have politics?"

"The older ones do. I believe they get . . . bored with simple carnage. There is organization among demons, Miss Summers. The Hellmouth is too volatile for the--civilized demons and vampires to be comfortable here, plus they prefer more sophisticated pleasures than are available in a small town."

"Somebody told me that in LA there are demon nightclubs and bars. And some Minoto I met talked about going to join their family in San Francisco."

Travers frowned. "You have been mingling with demons on a casual basis?"

She started to answer, but suddenly she was unwilling to bring the Convent of St. Eugene to the attention of the Council if they didn't already know about it. And if Travers hadn't noticed Willie's bar by now, then he wasn't watching very well. "Sometimes I talk before I slay. Aren't I supposed to?"

"Not all the friendly creatures are harmless. It can be very difficult to reconcile which demons are a threat and which are not. It takes a great deal of study."

"If it's trying to eat me or the world, I generally decide it's a threat. If it just wants a latte, I give it the benefit of the doubt."

"A--latte?"

She grinned and shrugged. "It's a Hellmouth thing. We probably get that more around here than you do in London."

He was still frowning. "Perhaps."

"Anyway, I'll let everybody know about your dinner invitation. Day after tomorrow, eight o'clock."

"Yes."

Two days later, Joyce's Land Rover, with Tara at the wheel, pulled up at the porte cochere of the Lodge at Sunnydale. How a luxury hotel survived next to the Hellmouth was one of the smaller mysteries, but Buffy suspected that a good percentage of the clientele were not as human as some.

Joyce was able to get out of the vehicle on her own by now, but she leaned on the door a few moments.

"What's wrong, Mom?" Buffy asked.

Joyce glanced at Dawn, who was chattering to Willow and Tara. "Do you really think she should be here? I don't know what kinds of questions they'll start asking about her."

Buffy took her mother's arm. "Whatever they ask is old news. She was the Key. But Glory is gone, and if Dawn is still the Key it doesn't matter. It's all old news. And we don't have to answer any questions we don't want to."

The valet came and took possession of the car, and the women went into the lobby. Willow looked around. Violin music played softly in the background as well-dressed people moved about. "I thought Xander and Anya were meeting us here. They did know it was tonight, didn't they?"

Buffy looked around as well. "I told him it was. I even managed to talk to him instead of his answering machine. He didn't seem thrilled, but he didn't say no."

Dawn was doing her best to act mature in the elegant surroundings. "Maybe it's taking him a while to get cleaned up after work. Have you ever seen him after putting up drywall?" Buffy nodded in agreement.

They all paused in front of a large mirror to check themselves before going on to the restaurant. Dawn plucked unhappily at her dark skirt, then glared at the others. Even Tara, who regularly lectured about the frivolousness of fashion, looked grown-up and sophisticated. "I look like a kid," she muttered.

Buffy poked critically at her own hair. "That's because you are a kid."

"Girls," Joyce said sternly before Dawn could finish pulling her foot back for a good swift kick. "Now come on, we don't want to be late."

Tara reached for Willow's hand. "What kind of questions is he going to ask?"

"I don't know," Buffy said. "He wants to know what happened with Glory. That's all I know. And with two of the major witnesses not available, it's up to us."

The maitre d' at the door of the restaurant gave them a courteous smile. "Good evening, ladies. How may I help you?"

Joyce took command of the formalities. "We're dining with Mr. Travers."

"Ah, the Summers party? This way, please."

Quentin Travers was waiting for them in a private dining room with a round table heavy with crystal and silver spread across the white table cloth. Travers rose to his feet as soon as he saw them. "Ladies, good evening. Thank you for joining me." He held his hand out to Joyce, who hesitated just long enough before taking it.

"Good evening, Mr. Travers," she said cooly. "A pleasure to finally meet you."

He smiled faintly. "And I, you, Mrs. Summers." He gestured to the seats. "Please, won't you be seated?" He held Joyce's chair for her at the place to his right. Buffy sat next to her mother, with Dawn beside her. Willow and Tara took seats on the opposite side of the table from Travers. He glanced at the two empty chairs to his left. "Aren't Mr. Harris and Ms. Jenkins joining us?"

Buffy cleared her throat nervously. "They're supposed to. Xander may be running late from work."

"Ah, yes. The rest of you are students between classes, am I right? And you, Mrs. Summers, have an art gallery here in town. I'm glad to see you've recovered from your illness."

Joyce nodded politely. "Thank you. I'm impressed with the records you keep on us all." Her smile had sharp edges.

Dawn nudged Buffy. "I don't think she likes him," she whispered.

"I don't think so either. Sh-h."

Two waiters came in to fill water glasses and to inquire after drink orders. Joyce and Travers agreed to let the sommelier choose the wine. After a stern look from Buffy, Dawn settled for iced tea, like the others.

Willow craned her neck to look out of the room. "There's Xander."

"Excellent," Travers said, getting to his feet again.

Xander's hair was still damp at the ends, and he'd gone the sport shirt and slacks route than attempting anything more formal. He nodded to everyone as he entered the room. "Sorry I'm late. I had to help with some paperwork."

Travers held out a hand. "Not at all, Mr. Harris. The others only just arrived." He winced slightly as Xander shook hands, and he flexed his fingers as he indicated the empty chairs. "Is Ms. Jenkins coming?"

"No, she isn't." Xander took the seat next to Willow, leaving the empty chair between himself and Travers.

Willow frowned. "Did she have to go, um, out of town again?"

"I don't know. She just left a message saying she wouldn't be able to make it." He focused on sipping from his water glass.

Travers sighed. "That is too bad. I was definitely looking forward to speaking to her about the events this past spring."

Xander only nodded and told the waiter he'd have the iced tea as well.

Travers resumed his seat and looked around the table. "Now that all of us are here, perhaps we can begin our discussion. Shall I just tell you what the Council has heard and you can correct the story as needed?"

Everyone looked to Buffy, who shrugged and nodded.

"The last report I received stated that Glory was still searching for her Key. The stories that have filtered back say that your group abruptly abandoned Sunnydale and went to find refuge at a convent in the mountains rather than continue the fight against Glory here. May I ask why?"

Buffy once again found herself spokesman. "My mom had a relapse, and Glory was starting to work her way through the Scoobies, looking for the Key. I couldn't protect everybody, so when we found out that there was a definite deadline we decided to hide somewhere until after the deadline. After that, her Key would be useless to her and we could figure out another way to stop her."

Travers nodded. "A sensible plan."

"Ben, a doctor who was looking after my mom, told me I needed a break and that I should take my family out of town."

Xander leaned forward. "Glory's Ben told you to get out of town? I thought it was your idea."

She shook her head. "He kept trying to stop her, so he decided to help."

Travers frowned. "Glory's Ben? You accepted help from someone affiliated with the hellgod?"

"It's not like we knew," Buffy said sharply. "We didn't find out till Glory showed up at the convent. Look, you know how Glory was bound to a human? That human was Ben. The two of them kept changing back and forth."

"So what happened with this Ben?"

"He, um . . . he died. And Glory died too."

"Died how?"

Buffy sighed. "Giles killed him."

Travers sat back. "I see."

"You know about Giles?" Xander asked.

Travers nodded. "It's why I'm here."

Willow gasped. "I thought you were just here to see Buffy. You're here to see Giles, too?"

He smiled just a little. "Not see, no."

"But--he helped us."

"He was a Watcher, Ms. Rosenberg. One of our most effective, I've finally realized. It is a violation of everything we believe in to leave him in such circumstances."

As Willow blinked in shock, Travers turned back to Buffy. "So, Glory's alter ego gave you the idea to wait out the deadline elsewhere. How did you know about the convent?"

"Giles again," Buffy shrugged. "He'd been there before. They're really sweet up there, they took us in even with Glory on our trail and two vampires with us."

Travers was tapping a finger restlessly on the table. "Why did you think it was a good idea to take two vampires with you?"

"We needed the strength and their knowledge. Without them, we wouldn't have made it."

The waiters returned with the first course of dinner. Travers allowed them to eat for several minutes before continuing with the conversation.

"Tell me about the Knights of Byzantium," he said to Buffy. "I doubt the version we received from them is particularly unbiased."

Xander put down his fork and closed his eyes. Willow reached over and squeezed his hand.

Buffy glanced at Xander very briefly. "You heard all this from the Knights?"

"We received one version of the tale from them. One of our contacts in Fresno heard rumors in the demon underground and gathered the reports. The main points are consistent, but the details vary widely. Was it a dozen or two hundred Knights there that night?"

"A couple of dozen or so, I think. It doesn't sound like that many, but when they're all armed and pissed at you, it's a lot of guys."

Travers nodded. "What happened with the Knights?"

Buffy did her best not to look at Xander again. "I'm not really sure. Dawn and Giles and I were in another dimension."

Travers perked up. "Yes, I am interested in hearing about that--but I do want to get my information on the Knights clear first." He looked at Joyce. "Mrs. Summers? What do you remember?"

Joyce shrugged. "I was hiding in the chapel most of the time. It's really quite an amazing place."

"I'm certain it is." He turned to Willow and Tara.

"I was pretty out of it, too," Tara volunteered. "With my mind, well, being--somewhere else."

"And I was too busy trying to figure out how to get her mind back," Willow added. "Oh, and stopping the fire arrows that the Knights kept shooting in at us."

Travers leaned forward. "How did you do that?"

"With magic. It took me a little bit to figure out that I couldn't just shatter them, because that just spread the fire around. I wanted to put up a barrier, but that would have stopped Buffy and the others coming back if they needed to." Willow sighed. "I wanted to go with them to Sqaon, but I had to stay so I could help Tara get better."

Tara took her hand and smiled proudly. "You were very wonderful." Willow shrugged and smiled bashfully.

Travers blinked a moment, then focused on Xander. "Mr. Harris? You seem to be the only witness left."

Xander took a slow, deep breath. "So what story have you heard?"

"We've heard so many different stories. I'd like to hear yours."

He looked up and met the other man's eyes. "Why?"

Travers blinked again. "Excuse me?"

"Why do you want to know the details? Isn't it enough to know that we won? Again? When everyone expected us to fail?"

"We're Watchers, Mr. Harris. We watch. We take notes, we keep records. The past informs the future, but we must remember the past for that to happen."

Xander made no effort to disguise his hostility. "And what if we don't want to be in your records, Mr. Travers?"

"Mr. Harris, you already are. Wouldn't you rather the records contain the truth?"

Xander smiled very faintly. "Truth. Interesting concept. Often over-rated."

Travers leaned forward. "There is a phrase: History is written by the winners. You are one of the winners. What would you have history say of what happened?"

Xander closed his eyes again as his breath became shaky. "The Knights came. They threatened us. We held them off all night. Just before dawn, their General and a few others snuck in. Before it got any more interesting, Glory showed up. And it got messy."

"That's it?" Travers asked after a few moments' silence.

"Isn't that enough? That's what happened."

"Well, yes, but how did you hold off a small army? How did the General get in? What happened to them all?"

"They died," Xander snapped. "Every single damned one of them." His smile was predatory. "If you want gory details, you could always ask Spike. I'm sure he remembers everything."

"Yes. Quite so." Travers took a sip of wine before turning back to Willow. "Ms. Rosenberg, you were working a great deal of magic that night."

Willow shrugged. "Well, it was mostly very simple things, redirecting the arrows, putting out the fires, things like that."

"How long have you been studying?"

"About three years now."

Travers paused before his next question when the waiters came back to refill glasses and bring more food. When they left, he resumed his questions. "And you are self-taught?"

"Pretty much. Ms. Calender, our high school computer teacher, had some notes and books, and--and Giles would answer questions and--and stuff."

"Yes," Travers said in a grim voice, "Rupert always did have a knack for that sort of thing. You and Ms. McClay have been studying together?"

Willow nudged Xander for snickering. "Yes, we have."

"Had you ever done anything like that portal spell before?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. It was amazing. Giles knew the spell, and Sister Agnes had a book in her library that we used to fine tune the spell so it would go to the right place. Anya had been there, so she was a lot of help in getting it right. Giles and I cast it, then I closed the portal after he and Buffy and Dawn went through. He said he could cast the portal to get everybody back."

"This was at the beginning of the evening, after the Knights arrived?"

"Um hm. They were after the Key, so we had to get Dawn somewhere safe away from them." She stopped, looking guilty.

Travers smiled. "I already knew about the Key, Ms. Rosenberg. All the stories were quite clear that it was the Slayer's little sister who was the target of all the attention." He turned to Buffy. "Did you know, when we were here last, about the identity of the Key?"

Buffy nodded. "Yes, we did."

"We would have been happy to help protect her."

"She was given to me to protect. And I didn't want you treating my little sister as a test subject."

Travers nodded, then looked at Dawn herself. "Ms. Summers, you've felt no ill effects from being the Key?"

"Um . . . " Dawn glanced at Buffy and Joyce, then back at Travers. "Uh uh. I feel fine. I feel like I always have."

"Like you always have?"

"Mr. Travers," Joyce said, "what is the first thing you remember about Dawn?"

He thought for a moment. "When I received the report about Buffy being the next Slayer, it mentioned her family, you, Mrs. Summers, her father and her sister, Dawn." He blinked. "But that's--"

Joyce nodded. "It's like that for all of us. Her aunt in Ohio sent a birthday card, and the school district just sent me the enrollment package for her."

Willow grinned at Dawn. "You wanted to cut off my hair the first time I babysat you."

"Did not," Dawn muttered.

"Then what were those scissors for, missy?" Dawn didn't answer.

Xander glared at her. "And somebody who shall remain nameless but whose name rhymes with prawn kicked my butt at foozball at her twelfth birthday party at the Chuck-e-Cheez."

Dawn blinked. "You said you let me win!"

"I lied! You think I wanted to admit a twelve-year-old beat me?"

She bounced in her chair. "I really won? All by myself?"

He sighed. "Yes, you really won." Dawn squealed in high-frequency glee.

Travers watched everything gravely. Joyce watched him. "We did everything we had to to protect her and the world from Glory," she said. "It wasn't easy, and it really isn't anything we like talking about." Travers glanced at Xander, who was smiling as Dawn gloated. "Can't you let it go?" Joyce added.

"I suppose it can wait till another time. Excuse me?" he said a little louder. The rest of the table fell silent. "Ms. Rosenberg, Ms. McClay, I'm very interested in how you solved the problem of Glory interfering with Ms. McClay's mind. It's unheard of for anyone to recover from that."

They discussed Tara's recovery through the rest of the meal. Travers answered a few questions from Joyce about the Watchers and the training of Slayers, but they managed to keep it civil.

After dinner, he and Joyce shook hands as they gathered their things to leave.

"If you ever have any other questions you'd like to ask, Mrs. Summers, please don't hesitate to call me." He handed her his card.

Joyce tucked it into her purse. "I'll do that. Thank you for dinner, Mr. Travers."

The others followed her out, saying Thank You and Good Bye. Dawn caught Travers' eye on her and ducked between Buffy and her mother as they left.

Travers watched them go, then turned back to the table. From among the flowers of the centerpiece, he pulled a very small tape recorder. He rewound the tape, played a few seconds to make sure of the recording quality, then tucked the recorder safely into his pocket.

***

The vampire bounced when he hit the building wall. When he pried himself off the filthy asphalt, he stared at the alley stain on his brand new Universal Studios Spider-Man t-shirt. "Aw, man, I just got this last night! Bastard!"

Angel bounced on the balls of his feet. "Yeah? Well, the shirt's not going to be a problem very much longer." He started forward, then hesitated. "What were you doing at Universal Studios?"

"Duh? The rides? That Terminator show rocks."

Back in a corner near some crates, Wesley kept the crossbow trained. "Angel, we don't have time for this."

"Right."

The tourist vampire continued his survival with a few inspired avoidance moves.

"Dammit," he gasped, "the travel agency said LA was a great town for vampires."

Angel paused again. "Travel agency? What travel agency?"

"Angel!" Wesley protested.

"Online," the vampire said. "I was looking for a nice beach vacation. LA's rated four stars."

Angel looked at Wesley in frustration. "How long have I been in this town? Has everything I've done been wasted?"

"Will you pay attention!" Wesley saw the vampire gather himself to jump Angel. He fired the crossbow, and the bolt flew past Angel's shoulder and into the tourist's heart.

Angel stared at Wesley in shock, then pointedly checked his arm to see if there were holes in the leather jacket.

"Oh, stop it," Wesley snapped. "It didn't come anywhere near you." He looked around anxiously as he reloaded the crossbow. "The vision said there'd be more of them."

Angel scanned the shadows and rooftops. "Cordy said four of them, right?"

"Right."

Minutes passed with no more vampires appearing.

"She's never wrong," Angel said.

Wesley let the crossbow dip a couple of inches. "No, she's not."

"Interference again?"

"I don't think so."

"Then we read it wrong."

Wesley gestured at the faded advertisement painted on the brick wall above them. "We have the Tia Rosa sign, we have the flickering street light."

"But we don't have four vampires fighting me all at once."

"No, we don't."

Angel stepped further down the alley, sifting the night with every sense he had.

Particles of the tourist still floated on the air. The taste of garbage and hydrocarbons bit Angel's tongue. Rats scuttled in the shadows, the buildings mumbled as the earth twitched.

Whispers. Which stopped as soon as he turned his head to get a better angle.

"Somebody's here," he told Wesley.

Wesley stepped into the middle of the alley to scan in all directions. "Where?"

"Not sure."

Angel studied the rooftops again. One of the buildings across the way looked different, emptier. He started towards the fire escape.

"Where are you going?" Wesley asked, catching his arm.

"They were on the roof."

"And you're going after them why?"

"Because I don't like knowing there are four vampires out there hunting me?" He pulled his arm free. "The vision shows them fighting me down here. If I'm up there, then they can't jump me down there."

"That's true, you would be outside the scope of the vision. But that means anything could happen."

Angel spread his arms out to the otherwise empty alley. "Well, nothing's happening down here, Wes."

"No, it isn't." Wesley considered the pile of dust that used to be a visitor to the fair City of Angels. "I don't think you were supposed to fight him."

"The kid he was stalking would beg to differ."

"Of course. But the vision wasn't about the kid, it was about you. When Cordy had the vision, I don't think our tourist friend planned to be in this alley."

"But the Powers that Be would have known."

"That presumes the Powers are able to see the outcomes of every possible future."

"Isn't that kind of the whole point of omniscience?"

"We don't know that they're omniscient. If they were, we wouldn't have to worry about reaching people in time." Wesley frowned. "At least, I hope not. I'd hate to think of omniscience tied to sadism. Anyway, I think the vision changed."

"They'd have called us."

Wesley was already pulling out his phone. "Yes, they would have. But I always turn off my phone when I'm expecting a fight." He checked the screen. "Three messages. Did you get any messages?"

Angel considered all the things an evil person could do to that so-innocent face. "My phone's at the hotel."

"Ah."

"What do the messages say?"

"They're from Gunn. Basically they say to look out for Spider-Man."

Angel blinked innocently. "Three messages just to say to look out for a t-shirt?"

Wesley glared. "And to be careful, of course."

"Of course. It's good he worries about you."

Wesley pushed a speed-dial button as he continued to glare at Angel, but the look faded to pure concern. "No answer at the hotel number." He tried some other buttons. "Nor for Cordelia or Gunn."

"Fred knows how to answer the phone, doesn't she?"

"I imagine she does, but I don't know that she would."

They studied each other. "We'll take the sewers in," Angel said.

"Good idea." Wesley went to see if his crossbow bolt had survived, then they headed back to Angel's car.

They parked a block away, then took to the sewers. A hundred yards from the hotel access, Angel gestured for Wes to turn off his flashlight. Wesley took careful hold of Angel's jacket as he followed the vampire towards the ladder.

Very carefully, Angel opened the trapdoor that led into the cellar. After a pause to scan the room, he opened the hatch the rest of the way, climbed up, then pulled Wesley up after him. They moved silently through the corridors toward the stairs.

Angel jerked to a stop two rooms away from the stairs. "Oh, my god," he whispered. Wesley stared at hm anxiously. "I can hear them talking," Angel finally explained. "It sounds like everyone is OK. But--Wes, swear to me you'll let me do the talking."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Seriously, Wes. Everything's just gone to a whole new level of weird." He waited till Wesley grudgingly nodded. "Keep the crossbow out and loaded. They'll respect that."

Wesley obviously bit his tongue on further questions.

Angel made an effort to neaten himself up a little, then headed for the stairs. Halfway down the hall, Wesley could hear the conversation himself.

"It always strikes me as such a cruelty," said the creaky voice of an evil old man, "that such a heavy burden as true visions should be placed on young, lovely creatures."

"I manage," said Cordy, sounding tense and nervous, but more angry than afraid.

"You've never been tempted to set them aside?"

"Of course I have. But it's not like I can get rid of them, and, besides, Angel needs them."

"Yes, the brave Angel--who I believe is about to join us."

Angel snarled silently and picked up his stalking pace. Wesley was grateful that his long legs allowed him to keep up. The guard who was standing at the opening to the corridor jumped when he heard the sound behind him.

"It's all right, Tonio. Let them come."

Cordelia started to get up from the plush round settee, but the vampire at her shoulder put his hand out.

"Touch her and we'll be vacuuming you up for days," Angel snapped as he and Wes entered the lobby.

Seated next to Cordelia on the settee was a man in the red robes of a Roman Catholic Cardinal. His face was too angular for age to explain, and the teeth in his smile resembled shark more than human. At his shoulder stood another vampire, this one wearing a brown monk's robe, with a leather messenger bag over one shoulder.

"Aldo," the old man said, "I would believe Signore Angelus in this. The bella signorina is free to do as she likes."

Cordelia took a step away. "Are you guys all right?"

"We're fine," Wesley told her. "Where are the others?" He kept his crossbow leveled as he scanned the lobby.

"Yo, English. Up here." Gunn and Fred were up on the balcony, flanked by two more vampires. Fred was staying as close to Gunn as she could manage, but the vampires were out of arm's reach.

"Everything OK up there, Gunn?" Angel asked.

"We're good."

Angel looked at Cordelia, who shrugged with a fine imitation of unconcern. "Nobody's hurt," she said. "These guys came in about ten minutes ago, saying they had to see you."

He nodded. "Your Eminence," he said coldly. "Forgive me for not saying I'm glad to see you. And, no, I'm not kissing your ring."

The old man chuckled and withdrew his hand. "It was worth a try." He looked at Wesley. "You must be the Watcher. I am--"

"Hieronymus Vittorio Sebastiano, Cardinale Fortezzi di Siena," Wesley said. "I presume."

Cardinal Fortezzi chuckled. "Indeed. My compliments, Angelus. Your compatriots are everything I expected them to be."

Cordelia took another careful step towards Wesley. "He's a vampire, right?"

"Yes, he is. Turned sometime in the sixteenth century, I believe."

Fortezzi smiled pleasantly. "Fifteenth century, but it was very close. 1498. My half-millennial celebration was quite lovely. If I'd known your address, Angelus, I'd have sent an invitation."

Angel was still glaring. "The name is Angel. What are you doing in my home, Fortezzi?"

"As cliche as it may sound, it is a matter of family business."

"Your Marlon Brando imitation is very unconvincing."

Fortezzi chucked, but the smile was gone. "You dismissed us casually when you last saw us, my young friend. I'd hoped a couple of centuries or so would teach you a little wisdom."

"It has. I want nothing to do with you, and I'm very surprised you want anything to do with me."

Wesley moved closer to Angel. "I know you said to let you do the talking, but what are you talking about?"

Angel hesitated. "Cardinal Fortezzi is one of the elders of the Order of Aurelius. I told the Master to bugger off back in the 1700s, but for some reason they're back to bother me now."

Fortezzi glared. "These are not matters to be discussed in the presence of humans."

"Then leave. If it can't be discussed in front of them, it can't be discussed in front of me."

The Cardinal stared at Angel for several moments. "Is it the soul that has caused you to treat your prey as your friends?"

"They're not my prey." He met Fortezzi's eyes squarely. "I'm looking at my prey."

Unexpectedly, the ancient vampire began to chuckle. "Ah, Angelus--Angel, in a different world what a leader for Aurelius you would have made."

Angel stared at Wesley, then at Fortezzi. "Excuse me? Leader of Aurelius? That's what this is about?"

Fortezzi nodded. "The elders have ruled. It's time to find someone to lead the Order again."

Cordelia slowly pointed a finger at Angel. "Him?"

"Oh, no, bellissima, no. While we love to amaze ourselves with the tales of the Scourge of Europe, our Angel is not under consideration. We have our candidate. She's young, but she has the hunger for power."

"What does this have to do with me?" Angel asked.

"I'm afraid I wasn't as forth coming with dear Fleur as she thinks. I've rather placed it in her mind that the line of Darla and Angelus is worth examination."

"Examination?"

"We tell tales of you, Angelus. No tales are told of Fleur de Mal. Not yet. She needs a chance to do something memorable."

"So you sicced her on me."

Cordelia grabbed Angel's arm. "Those vampires I saw jumping you--"

"They weren't there. But I think they were watching." Angel looked back at Fortezzi. "So this Fleur de Mal is coming after me."

"Not that I'm aware of," Fortezzi shrugged. "Forgive me, dear boy, but you are merely a disturbing curiosity these days. She may decide to tidy you out of the way, but I pointed out someone in your line who is much more interesting."

"You sent her after Spike."

Fortezzi nodded. "William the Bloody is uncouth and disreputable, but he is also resilient. He holds the Hellmouth, he destroyed the Anointed One. He managed to survive the human's anti-demon Initiative. By rights, he should be one of the counselors of the Order."

Angel couldn't help laughing. "Spike hates politics. The only way you'd get him to a meeting would be if you provided beer and pretzels and football. On a big screen TV."

"It would be amusing to see," Fortezzi chuckled.

Cordelia cleared her throat. "Let me get this straight. The prime candidate to lead the Order of Aurelius has gone to Sunnydale to kill Spike in order to prove her worthiness."

Fortezzi nodded.

"Spike is going to object to this, so you've set up a vampire civil war to happen in my home town. That stinks."

"You are from Sunnydale?" Fortezzi took a deep breath. "Yes, you have Hellmouth in your blood."

"Hey!"

"That explains so much," Wesley murmured.

"Hey, again!"

"I've never heard of Fleur de Mal," Angel said. "How old is she?"

"Very close to her quarter millennium. She is wily and dances politics very well."

Angel couldn't help a small smile. "Spike will take her. He sneers at politics, but he knows how to hunt. And she's going to be on his turf. I suppose she'll cheat."

Fortezzi chuckled. "She's a vampire and an Aurelian. Of course she'll cheat. You believe she will lose?"

"Unless she can take him completely flatfooted. If he's expecting trouble, she doesn't have a prayer."

"Hm." The Cardinal snapped his fingers at the vampire in monk's robes. "Phone, Roberti." The monk pulled a cellular phone from the bag on his shoulder and handed it over. Fortezzi peered at the buttons. "Is it Star 21 for Heidelbaum?"

"Star 12, Your Eminence."

"Grazie."

Cordelia leaned to Angel. "Twice your age, and he can use a cell phone."

"Hush, already."

"Bon jour, Leon! C'est Fortezzi."

Angel listened a moment, then looked at Wesley. "Is he making a bet?"

Wesley shook his head. "Changing one. Less on Fleur de Mal, and a side bet on Spike under an alias."

Cordelia humphed. "Nice to see he's so concerned about his protegee."

Angel shook his head. "Fortezzi is a master politician. He's set up options no matter how this plays out."

Fortezzi finished his call and returned the phone to Roberti. Wesley cleared his throat. "Your pardon, Your Eminence, but I'm curious. You are apparently someone of influence in the Order. Why not take the leadership for yourself?"

Fortezzi waved a hand. "I don't seek such recognition. I am not ambitious. The Master had ambitions. He had vision. We shall not see his like again."

"Thank god," Cordelia muttered. She met Fortezzi's glare with one of her own.

"I was content to serve the Master," he went on. "That is my place, to serve, be it the Aurelians or Holy Mother Church." He bowed his head and clasped the pectoral on his chest. It was heavily jeweled gold, as close to a cross as was apparently possible.

A snort of contempt came from the balcony. "Is this going to take much longer?" Gunn asked. "'Cause I don't think I can take much more."

"Charles . . ." Wesley hissed in warning.

Fortezzi looked up. "You have an objection, my friend?"

"I ain't your friend, dead man. And yeah, I have an objection. Blasphemy is my objection. A demon sitting there dressed like a priest, acting some sort of righteous--yeah, I object."

Fortezzi's smile seemed honestly delighted. "A man of faith. I see so few, these days. And yet you serve Angelus, who is as much a demon as I."

"Demon, sure. But not like you. See, he's heard of redemption, and he thinks it's worth trying for. You, you're just another leech on two feet."

Nearly everyone in the room flinched at that, but Fortezzi only studied Gunn a moment longer before glancing at Angel. "And you allow this in your service?"

"Proud to have him," Angel said easily.

"Angelus would never have tolerated such impertinence."

"I know. More important, they know, too."

Fortezzi nodded and gathered his robes to stand. "I do hope it's not another two centuries before I see you again, Angel."

"I hope it's longer."

With a chuckle, Fortezzi took Roberti's arm and made his slow way to the front door. "Come, my children." The other vampires retreated in the Cardinal's wake.

As the door closed, Angel looked everyone over. "You're sure you're all OK?"

Cordelia nodded. Gunn pulled Fred down the stairs after him. "We're fine, man. Just a lot of staring and standing too close. What was that all about?"

"Yes," Wesley said. "Why on earth would someone like him come to you and warn you about this Fleur de Mal? Is he expecting you to interfere?"

Angel thought, then shrugged. "He had multiple reasons. He always does. He's probably been looking for a reason to check up on me, he wants to see if I'm still a threat, he wants to see if I'll leave Spike to his fate or if I'll interfere. I imagine he's curious to see how Fleur de Mal can handle a changing situation."

"Those vampires I saw, what about them?" Cordelia asked.

"Maybe reconnaissance, maybe a hit team. You'll have to keep an eye out for them while I'm gone." He waited to see who would be the first to shout down the others.

Wes glared at everyone until they were silent. "You're going to Sunnydale, I take it? Going to warn Spike?"

"Yes."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Hello? Does anyone else remember a game of Pin the Poker in the Vampire? Why do you care?"

"It's not Spike I'm worried about, it's Sunnydale. And the rest of the world. The Aurelians have been quiet while looking for a replacement for the Master. This Fleur sounds like a traditionalist, and do we really want someone new looking for ways to open the Hellmouth and better methods of mass slaughter of people?"

Wesley nodded. "Yes, disrupting their line of succession would be useful. Plus a vampiric civil war would be very messy."

"Right," Cordelia said firmly. "When do we leave?" She held up a hand as Angel took a deep breath. "Don't. OK? Besides, it's been a long time since I paid a visit back there."

Wesley didn't even bother saying anything, just gave Angel a stubborn but sympathetic smile. Gunn grinned. "Oh, I so have to see this place after everything you've told me."

Fred was pulling into herself. "I--don't . . ."

"We're not dragging Fred up there," Angel said. "And we're not leaving her here by herself.."

The other three looked at each other, waiting for someone else to volunteer to stay in Los Angeles.

"I--um . . ." Fred cleared her throat. "Maybe Lorne--wouldn't mind . . .?"

"I'll call him right now," Cordelia said brightly, heading for the phone.

Angel sighed in defeat. "I'm trying to avoid dragging you folks into a vampire civil war."

"We'd have only followed you," Wesley said kindly.

"I know."

***

Even though everything was supposed to be back to normal, Dawn was nervous. Too many things hadn't been resolved. The Council of Watchers guys were still in town, Giles was still a vampire, Spike was still wandering around being the Big Bad. Buffy tried to pretend that everything was fine, but she spent a lot of time staring out the windows, frowning. When Dawn had proposed switching rooms with her if she moved back to the dorms, Buffy agreed without comment. Where was the fun in that?

It was Xander Dawn worried about most. He'd refused two invitations to dinner, and he never showed up at the Magic Box. Anya refused to talk about him even when directly asked. Some times she would gaze off sadly, but she talking about someone named Reinhart these days.

Even Willow seemed to have lost track of Xander. "Oh, I'm sure he's fine, Dawnie," was her casual reply when Dawn had said she was worried. Tara, at least, had looked vaguely concerned and wondered when the last time was that they'd seen Xander. Willow had promised to call him, but Dawn didn't think she had.

Dawn was ready to take matters into her own hands. If he and Anya really were on the outs after everything that had happened, he needing cheering up. Reminded that there were still people who appreciated him. She was starting her campaign of Xander appreciation at the mall, where she was looking for a present for him.

Guys were so hard to buy for. She flipped through the country music CDs, not recognizing any names. Maybe something in soundtracks?

They had a bunch of sci fi soundtracks, including X-Files, all the Star Treks and the Star Wars. Unfortunately, she didn't have quite enough money to get a CD plus that new blouse down at Fashion Bug. Unless . . .

She slid a fingernail casually under the corner of the security tag on the top edge of the X-Files jewel case. Sometimes they didn't put the tags on strong enough --

A throat was cleared behind her, and she squeaked. She turned and did her best innocent look.

The guy behind her was about Buffy's age, blond, and looked very bashful. He didn't have an employee name tag on, so she relaxed a little.

He nodded at the jewel case in her hands. "That's not the only security system they have. They've got, um, specialized scanners at the door."

Dawn glanced at the entrance to the record store. On either side of the door were big statues of monsters from some science fiction movie. Then one of the statues twitched.

The young man nodded as Dawn jumped. "They don't really do anything to shoplifters, but you can't sneak anything past them."

"What are--are they demons?"

He gave her a close look, then nodded. "They're Nedgars. Empaths. Very good at picking up guilt. So . . . you know about demons?"

She shrugged. "Oh, I've seen a few things. Family business, sort of." She held out her hand. "I'm Dawn Summers."

He took her hand gingerly. "Summers? Do you know Buffy?"

"She's my sister." Dawn wasn't sure if she wanted him to be impressed or if she was annoyed at being defined by Buffy.

"Oh. I'm Andrew. Andrew Wells. Tucker's brother," he added grudgingly.

"Who's Tucker?"

Andrew grinned in delight. "Will you marry me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry, sorry. It's just--nobody ever remembers me, they always remember Tucker."

Dawn nodded in understanding. "I know that one. So what did your brother do that everyone remembers him?"

Andrew shrugged casually. "He . . . summoned some hell hounds and sicced them on the senior prom in high school."

Dawn laughed before she could help herself. "Oh, how cool--no, wait, bad. Naughty Tucker." She snickered again. "Which explains why Buffy was so pissy that night." She gave him a knowing look. "Did you get to help?"

"Oh, gosh, look at the time--"

She patted his shoulder. "It's OK. Buffy never lets me help, either." She looked at the CD in her hand, then at the demons by the door.

"It's on sale," Andrew said helpfully.

"I know, but . . ." There were better karma points in spending money on gifts rather than on yourself. But, gosh, it was such a cute blouse . . .

Andrew cleared his throat. "I, um, know a shield to get past the Nedgars."

"You do?" Dawn managed not to squeal, then put her arm around his, snuggling up to his side. "Hi, shopping buddy." She gave him her most dazzling smile.

He blushed and nearly dropped his own collection of DVDs. "So, uh, was there, uh, anything else you wanted to look at?"

"No, no, mustn't be greedy." She peeled the security sticker off the CD and smoothly tucked the case into her purse.

"The shield blocks those scanners, too," Andrew said.

"Really? You're a useful guy to know. Is this shield very hard to do?"

She urged him to the doors, chatting blithely as they went. The demons didn't even twitch. Dawn bounced just a little when they reached the crowded walking space. She didn't let go of Andrew

"So, where shall we go next, you and that nifty scanner blocker you've got?"

Andrew stared at her, overwhelmed but apparently happy to be so. "I don't look very much like Warren Beatty."

Dawn stopped and stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Bonnie & Clyde? It was a movie?" She shook her head. "Never mind." He looked around the mall thoughtfully, then sighed. "I'm supposed to meet my friends at the game store."

Dawn sighed, too. "Figures. It was too good to be true, anyway. Well, you go find your friends, and maybe we'll find each other again later." She bounced up and kissed him on the cheek. "So long, Andrew, who isn't Tucker."

She slipped away from him, and he blinked at her. "So long, Dawn, who isn't Buffy." He waved as she turned to go; she waved back as she bounced off through the crowd. Slowly he put his hand on his cheek and wandered off to the game store.

Jonathan spotted him first. "What's wrong with you?"

"I got kissed," Andrew said dreamily.

Warren didn't look up from the new Dungeons & Dragons books he was looking through. "By what?"

"By a girl."

Both Warren and Jonathan stopped what they were doing and stared at Andrew. "A girl?" Jonathan repeated.

"Of her own free will?" Warren asked suspiciously.

"Uh huh."

Jonathan and Warren looked at each other, then out into the crowd, trying to spot a girl who might be the type to kiss Andrew willingly. "Who was it?" Jonathan asked.

"Her name's Dawn. Dawn Summers."

Warren's eyes narrowed. "Summers? As in Buffy Summers?"

"Uh huh. Her little sister."

Jonathan's expression was somewhere between impressed and dismayed. "The Slayer's little sister kissed you? Why?"

"A gentleman never tells," Andrew sniffed.

Warren was still scanning the crowd. "The Slayer's little sister, eh?" He ran a thoughtful little finger along his lower lip.

Jonathan applauded politely. "Oh, lovely Dr. Evil, Warren. Just lovely. You're not going to want to get a cat, are you? Because I'm allergic."

Andrew shook himself and focused. "Why are you getting all Dr. Evil about Dawn?"

"Oh, no reason, no reason. It's just--she's a connection to the Slayer, that's all. And she apparently likes you. Very well done."

Andrew beamed at the approval.

***

Xander paused in checking the plumb of the wall he was working on, suddenly wondering what day it was. That was happening a lot, lately. The work days ran together, with Charlie bitching about his wife, Paco complaining about his car, Toby calling his girlfriend on his cell phone every chance he had, and the foreman wandering through to say they weren't being paid to lollygag.

It used to be a good feeling, like he had a little community all his own. Now, though, it felt like another part of the endless grey plain that had become his life. This is your life, Xander Harris. OK job, OK car, no girl, alleged friends. Oh, and an outstanding debt to the master of the vengeance demons, who would get back with him when a sufficiently interesting payment was thought of.

"Harris!"

Xander jumped and dropped the level. "Fuck," he muttered, as Sam the foreman strode up.

"It's a level, Harris, not the Playboy centerfold. Stop staring at it and get back to work."

Xander nodded an apology and picked up the level. His gut wanted him to snarl at Sam, but the foreman was just doing his job. Sam was already stomping over to Toby, who was hanging up on his girlfriend very quickly. But that was happening more often, too, Xander zoning out on the job and having to be called back to attention. It was just so damned hard to care anymore.

He managed to stay focused for a couple of hours, checking the work and cleaning up where standards had slipped. He made sure to pay attention when he was up on the open steelwork for the third floor. Last week he'd spaced hooking up his safety harness, then nearly fell off an I-beam when he noticed a moving crane-load of steel at the last minute and had to dodge. Rookie mistakes.

Over lunch, he let his mind wander, ignoring attempts to pull him into various lunch hour conversations. Maybe he'd go take a nap in his car. That might help his brain.

He was just about to stand up and head for the rough parking lot on the east side of the site when he saw a familiar car parked half-way behind the wooden barrier at the street. A car he'd seen parked in his neighborhood a lot and too often here at the site. The man behind the wheel was a stranger, but one afternoon he'd seen Quentin Travers sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver as they had a serious conversation. When Xander had started over to confront the Watchers, they'd driven quickly away.

What the hell did they think they were going to see, spying on him? He was just a guy. Why weren't they spying on Willow or Buffy or tracking down Giles? He was nobody. Why wouldn't they just let him be nobody?

"Harris. Xander!"

He jerked at the shake of his arm. Sam the Foreman was staring at him. "Oh, sorry, Sam. I was--sorry. What can I do for you?"

Sam nodded towards an empty part of the site. "Let's talk."

"What about?"

"Over here."

God, a private chat. So never, ever good. How many of these had he gone through over the years, always starting with "Let's talk" and ending with "Where do send your last paycheck?" He bit back the rage and frustration and followed.

Sam led the way out of sight of the others, behind a pile of sheetrock. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked at Xander. "Harris--Xander . . . are you on something?"

Xander actually took a step back. "What? No!"

"Look--we've all seen it. The distraction, the spacing out on things you damned well know how to do--" He gave a hard sigh. "And I can smell the beer."

The blush hurt. "That's--this is the same shirt from yesterday. I spilled some last night--I do not come to work drunk."

Sam nodded and relaxed just a little. "Good to know. What about the rest of it?"

Why did he have to keep talking about it? "There's just been--I'm not taking anything. I know I'm messing up, but there's stuff on my mind."

"How are things with you and your girl?"

Xander closed his eyes. He'd talked to the guys on the site about where to buy an engagement ring, then he had to tell them that was all off, just so they'd stop teasing him about wedding dates and all that. The rough, blessedly brief sympathy had helped.

"Her new boyfriend works the same place she does," he finally said.

"Oh, fuck," Sam muttered. "I'm sorry, Harris." He sighed again. "I know it's rough, but--you can't keep doing what you're doing here. You'll get hurt. You'll get somebody else hurt."

Xander braced himself for the next words, the ones that kept reinforcing what a waste of space he really was.

"I know you've got a lot of vacation time laid up," Sam went on. "Go home, take next week off. Get your head back in line."

He blinked. "You're not firing me?"

"Hell, no." The foreman finally managed a smile. "You know which end of a hammer to put in your pocket, we need guys like you. Just--you've got to get it straightened out, Harris. Go on home. Get some rest. Change your shirt." He clapped Xander on the shoulder and walked away.

Surprise and relief made Xander dizzy. Yes, he did have a lot of vacation saved up. He'd been thinking honeymoon and how much convincing it would take to make Anya leave the store for a couple of weeks. No reason to not take some of that time now. And he did like the idea of getting some sleep.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt. The shirt that smelled of last night's beer and which made his bosses think he'd come to work drunk. Damn, that was humiliating. And Sam had said "everybody" knew. He so much did not want to deal with that right now. If he cut around behind the trailer where the site office was, he could get to his car without anyone seeing him.

He was picking his way among the piles of extra conduit and angle iron just behind the trailer when he heard voices inside. "What's got you so pissed off, Sam?" asked Mr. Simak, the site manager.

"I talked to Harris," Sam said over the gurgle of the office water cooler.

Mr. Simak made a knowing sound. Xander was unable to move.

"You know the way he's been just spacing out lately," Sam went on. "He reeked of beer."

"He was drunk?" Mr. Simak snapped.

"He said he wasn't, and I believe him. Said it was last night's shirt."

"Girlfriend's mad at him, huh? Not doing the laundry?"

"Girlfriend has a new boyfriend."

"Oh, hell. That's tough. What did you do?"

"Gave him next week off, told him to use some of that vacation time. He was grateful I wasn't firing him."

"You think he'll come back?" Mr. Simak said after a moment. Xander blinked in disbelief.

"I don't know," Sam said thoughtfully. "If he's drinking the way he seems, he might crawl in somewhere cool and round and forget. Dammit, I really thought the Harris pattern might leave him alone."

Xander had been about to protest, regardless of eavesdropping, but his gut suddenly wouldn't let him breathe.

"You ever meet his father?" Mr. Simak asked.

"Oh, yes." Sam's voice was full of contempt. "The pleasure was all his."

"I went to high school with him. Well, not *with* him, just at the same time as him. He was on the football team."

"Let me guess, bully of the school."

"No, actually. He was just a guy like the rest of us."

There was another moment of silence. "Let me guess--his dad knocked him around. That sort of thing does tend to run in the family." Sam's voice was resigned.

"I have no idea. Wasn't something we talked about then. I do know Tony's father was no prize."

"Great."

Grandpa Cliff. The only man who could make Xander's father flinch. Xander thought Grandpa must have been the most amazing man in the world for that. Men like that were allowed to be impatient and out-of-sorts with kids. Family visits were short and far-between.

"It's a damned shame," Sam muttered. "I had Harris pegged as a climber, but . . ."

"Yeah." There was silence for several seconds. "Did you talk to the asphalt contractor? They think they're doing the parking lot next week."

"What? We've still got supplies out there."

Xander found himself sitting on the ground, hidden behind building supplies. The Harris pattern. They even had a name for it. He thought it was just called loserdom.

They'd learned about it in school, the vicious cycle of child abuse, how kids who were hurt were more likely than others to hurt their kids. He'd sworn he wouldn't be like that, he wouldn't use his temper against the people dependent on him. He wouldn't be like his father, or his grandfather before that . . .

Suddenly algebra made sense. If A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. Grandpa had turned out a son just like himself. Xander didn't want to go down that road, and he'd thought it would be easy. But he'd never thought of his father in high school, never wondered what he'd been like at Xander's age. Just a guy. Just like Xander. How did a guy like all the others turn into someone who ripped out your heart in dreams? For once Xander wanted to track down his father and ask, but his automatic flinch told him what he'd get for the effort.

If Dad was like Grandpa, but Dad had once been like Xander, how much like Grandpa could Xander become?

Maybe Xander was already on that road. It must have made sense the first time his father had shoved him out of the way. The subconscious always had a good reason for the bad things that happened. Something like, "Sorry, dude, but the poor crazy girl's life is more important than yours." The next ones were easier. They weren't human, anyway. Xander was getting pretty good at killing the things that weren't human. So easy to go from "destroy the threatening non-human" to "destroy the threatening human". How hard was the step to "destroy the annoying human"? All the soldiers he'd maimed could answer that.

The Harris pattern. They even had a name for it.

No. He would not allow it. Break the chain, stop the madness. Before anyone else got hurt.

***

It was surprisingly difficult to get away in the evenings without explanation. Willow didn't have the study group excuse before classes started. Tara wouldn't object if Willow just said she wanted to go out by herself for a while, but she wouldn't be able to stay out for long.

Her magic lessons had been casually scheduled for every Friday or Saturday night. On Friday, Willow regretfully gave Tara a mug of tea dosed with sleeping herbs, then tucked her into bed with a kiss and a murmured charm for peaceful, deep sleep. She paused for a guilty second at the door, then headed out.

Why had she never gotten Giles' new phone number? She kept meaning to, but never bothered. And she couldn't think of a plausible reason to ask Anya for the number.

Did Giles know the Watchers were after him? He had to, didn't he? Spike, at least, should have noticed new hunters in town.

She ran all the way to Sunrise Grove, with the spell to divert attention in place the whole way. Fred was on duty at the front door of the rec center. He blinked in surprise when she dropped the spell a few feet away from the building, but recovered quickly.

"Evenin', Miss Willow," the vampire nodded.

"Hi, Fred." Willow fought to catch her breath. "Is he here?"

"Yeah, he's downstairs. Another bundle of books came in today."

"Oh, thank god."

Fred blinked in surprised, then shrugged and opened the door for her.

She hurried through the rec center, ignoring the other vampires in the building. A vaguely familiar female watching TV in the old gymnasium grabbed the arm of a leering male, pulling him back and whispering to him. Willow heard "witch . . . Ripper's" before she pushed through the firedoor at the head of the stairs and headed down.

The music from Giles' workroom tonight was more screaming guitars and drums, and a man yelling "We won't be fooled again!" Willow stopped in the open doorway, panting.

Giles sat at his desk, filling out an index card while looking at the title page of a book. He looked up and smiled. "Good evening, Willow. You didn't have to run the whole way." He tucked the card inside the book and closed it, then stood just in time to catch Willow as she ran to hug him. "What's all this?"

"There are Watchers in town. They're looking for you." She pulled back and saw his face go blank.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"We had dinner with Quentin Travers the other night. He wanted to know about Glory, but he said the main reason they were here was to . . . find you."

Giles nodded slowly. "I'm not surprised. How long have they been here?"

"A couple of weeks, according to Buffy. Maybe longer."

"A couple of *weeks*? What has Buffy told them?"

"She said--she told them everything. How to find you, everything. Giles, I'm sorry, she didn't want to, but she--"

Giles smiled and touched her cheek. "But she's the Slayer. It's her job. But you came to warn me. Thank you."

"I had to! You're not like those others, you're smart and careful and--"

She stopped as he slipped into gameface, his eyes never leaving hers.

"And killing people, Willow," he said, still lisping faintly around the fangs. "I'm a vampire. Their job is to stop me." She couldn't answer and dropped her eyes. Giles hugged her, and when she looked up again she saw his human face. "Quentin Travers, you say?"

"He asked all these questions, wanting to know about Dawn and everything about Glory. Mrs. Summers didn't trust him."

"Joyce is an excellent judge of character."

He let go of her and stepped back, frowning. Willow watched him. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure yet. Do you know where they're staying?"

"Probably the Lodge at Sunnydale. That's where Mr. Travers had us for dinner the other night."

Giles smiled just a little. "Yes, they would put themselves up at the most elegant hotel in town. In any case, Willow, warnings aside, you're here for your lesson. Let's work on your avoidance spell first, then we'll start studying the names of demons. I want to do that summoning in a couple of weeks, but we have to know just *who* we're summoning."

Willow put her book bag on the work table and started to unpack, but she still frowned in worry. "You will be careful, won't you?" she asked in a small voice.

"Of course, my dear." He kissed her forehead. "But you're very kind to worry."

***

In Senegal, where Fleur de Mal was born at the end of the 18th century, she had watched the French colonists. The elders of her tribe had scolded her, saying the Europeans were no business of hers. Regardless, she watched. She learned of their power--the power to walk into another person's country and declare it theirs. Some tribesmen protested, but the colonists prevailed.

Power lured her. She had been contemplating marriage with the son of the chief elder. Her beauty was her own power, and she knew that any man she cast her eye upon would come to her hand. But now her eye went farther afield. The head of the trading company was flabby and often dirty, but other men bowed to him. When Fleur strolled across the company's clearing and allowed the foreign men to gaze on her, she caught the eye of their chief and smiled. Six months later, she was at his side on the ship headed to France, her tribe's condemnations in her ears and European silk on her shoulders.

The trader installed her at his country home while he returned to his wife and business in Paris. Fleur had strolled the alien gardens, marveling at the unimaginable landscapes. One summer evening she found a man in the remote part of the gardens, a small, skulking man whose eyes held secrets and promises. She died on his fangs that night, and she awoke to immortality. Her Sire, Jean la Chien, had taken her back to his Master, where she gazed on ageless power. She knew her Sire's place in the Master's court was little more than a joke, but she served him with gratitude. When her Sire was destroyed, she swore herself to the Master's service and began preparing herself for her destiny.

Aurelius was nearly hers, Fleur mused as she ran her fingers through the luxurious waters of her bath. The elegant, empty mansion on the outskirts of the Hellmouth had lovely appointments, once things had been cleaned. Humans were nothing but prey, but they were clever, and only the most conservative shunned the comforts of the human world. Fleur lounged in the large, tiled tub of the master suite, surrounded by candles, her slave crouched at the side of the tub as he tended to her very long hair.

The house smelled of vampires, though the scents were old. Fleur breathed in the traces. It was said Angelus had lived here, before his move to the city that bore his name. Anguish perfumed the empty rooms, torment and blood. Someone had suffered here. Several someones. Madness and rage and lust and betrayal.

"So lovely," she whispered Her slave paused in drawing his fingers carefully through her wet hair. "Nothing, mon agneau. Braid it, please. I'm going out later." The slave nodded and reached for his combs. He froze, whimpering.

Fleur frowned at him, then saw the problem. Creeping through the door was a severed hand, fairly fresh and leaving a trail of liquid behind it as it pulled itself along by its fingernails. She patted her slave's arm.

"Louis!" she called.

"Oui, madame?" came from a few rooms away.

"Are you missing something?"

"How did you--oh!" A thin, dark man ran in and snatched up the flexing hand. "So terribly sorry, madame. The dead are just so sprightly here on the Hellmouth, even the bits that aren't attached to anything have the urge to wander."

"Not everyone has your appreciation for spare parts, Louis. Please make sure everything is confined."

Louis bowed. "Of course, madame. It won't happen again. This must have crept out when my back was turned." He studied the hand, which was still curling its fingers. "Now, where were you trying to go, hm?" Murmuring to himself, he left the room.

Another man came in, looking back over his shoulder at Louis and grimacing. "Another escapee?" he asked Fleur.

"Wandering bits. It startled my poor lamb, that's all. You don't like Louis, do you, Paul? Is it because he's a necromancer or because he's human?"

"He's a Gypsy, isn't that reason enough?" He shuddered, then smiled. "Besides, necromancer, vampires--a potentially tricky relationship."

"He finds enough bits to play with to keep him happy. Besides, I find his magic useful." She held her hand out languidly. "What news on the Rialto, my Paul?"

Paul went to the tub and took her hand to give it a courtly kiss. He had learned his manners as a living man in the Imperial court of Napoleon, where his wit and blond good looks had charmed both Empresses. He learned his cunning during the seesawing months when the French kings reclaimed their throne, lost it with Napoleon's return, then regained it on Napoleon's fall 100 days later at Waterloo. He barely remembered the vampire who had waylaid him in an alley behind a Parisian brothel in 1824. He had served Fleur de Mal in whatever capacity she desired for one hundred years.

Stepping blithely around Fleur's slave, Paul sat in the chair at the foot of the tub. "There is news. His Eminence has taken to traveling."

Fleur turned her head as far as the braiding process would allow her. "Except for the meeting in France, he hasn't left Italy in a dozen decades. Where did he go?"

"Los Angeles."

"No."

"Yes. He paid a call on everyone's favorite outcast, Angelus."

Fleur stared at the ceiling. "But--are you sure?"

"I called the Archduke. Fortezzi paid a courtesy call on Sebassis, then stopped by that hotel Angelus calls home, then reboarded his private jet back to Rome."

"But he's on my side!" Fleur protested.

Paul tsked. "The old snake is on his own side. He currently favors you--apparently. He may just be stirring the pot."

Fleur had her thoughts under better control. "What is Angelus doing?" She frowned at Paul's fidget. "Well?"

"It appears he's coming here. He's sent out various messages that he and his people are leaving Los Angeles for a few days."

"I see. Calling Fortezzi would be fruitless, of course. He'd either deny the entire thing or pretend it was merely curiosity. Why would he stir up Angelus?" She looked at Paul at the same moment Paul straightened in realization. "Because Angelus is the great unresolved issue of the Order of Aurelius."

Paul nodded quickly. "Enough people have known over the years that he was cursed, I'm surprised he wasn't ordered destroyed. Or were they hoping he could be released?"

Fleur shook her head. "I never heard it discussed. There's too much legend involved for clear debate. But he does need settled."

"It would be very impressive."

"What would?"

Paul took a deep breath. "If you destroyed Angelus."

Fleur let her head rest on the rim of the tub. Her slave kept the braid he was constructing from getting in the way. "Destroy Angelus." She smiled slowly. "Yes, the Order would definitely take notice of that. I don't suppose anyone knows where Drusilla is, do they?"

"South America, the last I heard," Paul shrugged. "Why?"

"Angelus would be impressive enough. But his entire line? We have William the Bloody here, and Angelus is coming . . ."

Paul rose and went over to pick up Fleur's hand and give it another kiss. "And this is why you're favored to lead the Order."

She smiled at him. "They're not dead yet, my dear. But it is a good plan, isn't it."

He leaned over to kiss her lips. "Indeed, mon coeur."

***

The second vampire victim's body of the night was tossed up in a tree in the park. From what Buffy could tell, there were multiple bites from multiple vamps. Just like the first one, which had been left curled up on a park bench in full view of the street. Newbies didn't hunt in packs, typically. Spike's crew didn't go in very often for ostentatious killing where the Slayer could find out, but Buffy hadn't heard of a new gang in town.

She walked on cautiously through the park. This latest body was less than an hour old. Part of her wished for Scooby back-up, but that was immediately countered with relief that she didn't have to worry about anybody getting hurt. Willow's magic was very useful, but she'd seemed very distracted the past few days. Maybe it was her usual "less than a month till classes start, and I haven't finished reading all the books yet!" thing.

Buffy kicked a nearby rock. Mom had mentioned a trip to the beach for a long weekend again, and Buffy hated saying she needed to keep an eye on the Hellmouth. She wanted to watch her mother smile in the sun and her sister play in the ocean. She knew normal was a lie in her world, but couldn't she pretend for just a few days?

And, right on schedule, here came another drama, crashing through the bushes and breathing hard. She pulled out her stake and got ready.

Floppy-skinned Clem, clutching a basket to his chest, fell out of the bushes into the open and looked around desperately. "Oh! Miss Slayer! Help!" Before Buffy could react, Clem was hiding behind her. "They're trying to kill me!"

More crashing in the underbrush, and Clem's pursuers appeared: three men with crossbows.

Three familiar men with crossbows.

"Now, who said you could go charging around my town like this?" Buffy protested.

"Please step away from the demon, miss," the bowman on the left said.

"Oh, you mean this demon? The one *hiding* behind me? Who asked me to *protect* him from you?" Clem hunched down further, peering over Buffy's shoulder.

"Miss . . ."

"Where's your boss? Or is he letting you run around loose tonight?"

Quentin Travers hurried down the path, breathing just a little heavily. "No, Miss Summers, they're not running around loose. They just got ahead of me." He stopped and leaned on his walking stick. "Still, they have a valid point." He glared at Clem. "Why are you protecting that demon?"

"Because he asked me to?"

Travers frowned. "That's very clever, to hide behind one hunter to escape another group of hunters. Still, he ran when he saw us."

Clem blinked in surprise. "I always run from scary guys with crossbows!"

Buffy shrugged. "Not a bad plan, actually." She noticed squeaking noises coming from Clem's basket. "Clem, what's in the basket?"

"Oh, um . . ."

She gave him a stern look. "I'm backing you up here, Clem. Tell me there's not something icky in the basket."

"There's not something icky. Unless you don't like fur."

"Clem!"

He sighed and eased the top off the wicker basket. Several furry little noses poked at the opening, mewing urgently.

"Kittens!" Buffy squealed. She lost her grin fast to a look of horror. "Why do you have kittens? Oh my god, what are you going to do with the cute little kittens?"

"I'm going to play poker with them," Clem said, sounding baffled. He gave her a disturbed look. "What do you do with kittens?"

She gently stroked a little tabby head. "Hug them." She firmly pulled her hand back. "You play poker with kittens? How do they hold the cards?"

Clem blinked. "I--no. I make bets with the kittens."

"You use kittens for money?"

"Well, yeah."

Buffy stared at Clem for a few more moments, then turned decisively back to Travers. "You see, Mr. Travers? Just a guy going to his poker game. You don't have some sort of 'Shoot him because he doesn't look like everyone else' orders, do you?"

Travers stopped staring at Clem. "This is an alien creature--"

"Hey, I was born in this country, mister!"

Travers paused to get his thoughts back in order. "He's a--" he cleared his throat "--demon."

Buffy shook her head. "What was that?"

"It's not pronounced like that," Clem said. "More in the back of the throat." He made a coughing-hacking noise.

Travers blinked. "Are you sure?"

"Dude, I am one, I know how it's pronounced."

"But Rutger's Universal Compendium is quite clear that the glottal stop is on the first syllable."

"All I know is the only person I know who pronounces it like you is Mom, but she's from Texas."

"Texas?" Buffy asked.

"Dad met her on vacation, brought her home to meet the folks. Been here ever since."

Travers thumped his walking stick on the ground. "In any case! These are dangerous creatures, Miss Summers."

"So am I! So are baby deer and goats!"

"Excuse me?"

"Have you *been* to a petting zoo?"

"Miss Summers--"

"Mr. Travers!" She caught her breath. "While your goons have been chasing poor Clem around the park, there's been a gang of vampires turning the populace into a buffet. There's a fresh body not a hundred yards down that path. Don't you think that's a bit more important than Clem going to his poker game?"

Travers hesitated, then looked at his men, who were conferring among themselves and shaking their heads. "I wasn't aware of that," he said slowly. "Yes, that is more important. A gang, you say?"

"Multiple sizes of bite marks."

Clem made a nauseated noise. "I'm thinking you guys have Slayer business to talk about, so how about I just head on over to the game?" He started to sidle away, but the crossbows came up.

Buffy glared at Travers, who sighed and nodded to his men. They reluctantly lowered their weapons.

"OK, then!" Clem said brightly. "I'll just be going, then. Nice to see you again, Miss Buffy."

"You, too. And it's just Buffy. Be careful, Clem."

He grinned and headed down the path, a happy bounce in his step.

Travers watched him go, frowning. Buffy watched him for a few moments, amused by the look of baffled British reserve. "Never chatted with a demon before?"

"Never so . . . genially."

"Don't you think that's how it should be?"

"How do you mean?"

Buffy began walking, Travers falling in at her side and the sullen crossbowmen following. "He asked me for help. A demon asked the Slayer to protect him. And Clem isn't really a demon, he's just not human. His Mom's from Texas! Instead of shoving everyone into human and demon-ish, shouldn't I be protecting the good people, whatever they are, from the bad people--whatever *they* are?"

Travers frowned. "Creatures like--Clem are dangerous."

"My mom can be dangerous if you push her hard enough. Most of my friends are dangerous. That doesn't mean they're bad."

"No, it doesn't. Miss Summers, the simple fact is--you are unique. The vast majority of Slayers don't survive long enough to have the time and experience to consider the philosophic underpinnings of what we do. They're busy surviving and learning to fight, and there's generally a catastrophe of one sort or another that doesn't allow them the time to consider things."

Buffy thought on that for a few moments. "I can see your point," she said quietly. "So what's your excuse?"

"Pardon?"

"You're the head of the Watcher's Council. You've got access to all the books about the weird creatures in the world. You've had time to consider things." She looked back at the crossbowmen still following them. "I just don't think you care."

"Miss Summers, there are reasons we do things--"

"What reasons! How do you justify killing creatures who aren't hurting anybody? How many harmless creatures have you and your Merry Men gone after since you've been here?" She stopped at the foot of a tree and looked up. Travers followed her gaze and winced. A human corpse, clothing half-ripped off, multiple bite wounds darkening the flesh.

Buffy stepped in close to Travers. "That's what I'm supposed to be fighting against, Mr. Travers. The things that butcher people. I've gone after killer robots and crazed wizards and kids who stitch their brothers back together and bring them back to life and government agencies gone nuts. I don't go where you point or kill whatever you think I should. That's not how we do things here on the Hellmouth."

After several moments, Travers glanced back up at the body. "You suspect something new in regards to this? There aren't--gangs already in place that are hunting together?"

"It's not Spike and Giles' bunch, no. They lay very low." She glared out into the night. "Something else has moved in, and it's making itself at home."

"Yes, we should look into this--"

"No."

Travers turned to Buffy in surprise. She gave him a very steady look in return.

"I think you should go home. I know why you came but I don't know why you stay, and this isn't the place for you and the way you do things. Either do the job you came here to do or not, but decide and go home."

"Miss Summers, it is not for you to decide where members of the Council go or what they do--"

She took a supernaturally fast step up close to him. "Then listen to the Slayer when she tells you that you are a threat to her town and she doesn't put up that! This is not a training exercise! You are stirring up all the wrong things, and I don't have time for that! That is the second body I've found tonight, and I'm pretty damned sure that while I've been messing with you, a third body is somewhere out there!"

The crossbowmen came up closer, looking antsy and willing to fight. Buffy glared at them but smiled very slightly.

"Gentlemen, please," Travers said quickly. "Miss Summers, please, there's no need for us to fight." He muttered under his breath for a few moments, then shook his head. "You're right, Miss Summers. This is not the job I and my men are suited for. We should finish matters, one way or another. But it might take a few more days. I'm still communicating with England on some issues."

Buffy nodded tightly. "Just so it's soon." Her shoulders sagged just a little. "Maybe I can send Mom and Dawn to the beach by themselves."

"Pardon?" Travers asked cautiously.

She waved a hand in the air. "Sorry, never mind. My mom wants to take us to the beach for a few days. Pretend we're a normal family and spend some normal time together. She hasn't been up to it before now, and Dawn and I had summer classes, and there's not much time before classes start again--" She shook her head. "And that's not really here nor there. Too much stuff going on here."

Travers watched her for several moments. "Miss Summers, there is very little that I can do for you that is useful or relevant. But perhaps I can give you some time."

"Excuse me?" Buffy blinked.

"If you would entrust the safety of your town to me and my men for a few days, then you could go with your family on a brief holiday."

"Oh, but, I can't--" She hesitated, then hit him with a full-strength smile of delight. She very nearly hugged him, but caught herself in time. "Mr. Travers, that would be--it wouldn't be for long, two or three days, a long weekend is all."

"That would be fine. Just tell me when you're leaving, and my men and I will patrol the town--for evil-doers of whatever stripe, leaving the innocent alone," he added at her sudden scowl.

"That should do fine, then." Her smile got away from her again. "Thank you, Mr. Travers."

He bowed slightly. "You're very welcome, Miss Summers." He glanced up at the corpse and sighed. "I suppose we'd best go look for the next poor victim. Perhaps we'll get lucky and find the vampires that did it."

Buffy nodded firmly. "That would be nice."

"And perhaps you can instruct me on how things are done on the Hellmouth."

"We survive, Mr. Travers. We survive."

***

"Come on, you lazy sons of bitches, what's it take to get eaten in this town these days?" The young man sitting on the tombstone tilted his head back to drain another inch from his whiskey bottle. "My god, you guys are pathetic! Used to be you couldn't walk more than a block at night without some blood sucker going for you. Vamps these days, geez."

In the shadows, the week-old fledgling licked his fangs and started forward. A hand grabbed his collar and twisted. "Hold it right there, Billy Bob."

Billy Bob growled at his hunting partner. "Lemme go, Nathan! He's just sittin' there, drunk and stupid and beggin' for it!"

"Yes, he is, but that's just too bad. You know the rules."

"Yeah! Kill the humans, drink their blood! Make 'em scream!"

Nathan shook his head. "Fledges. Billy Bob, do you remember what the boss said? Something about some folks being off limits?"

Billy Bob screwed his face up hard as he thought. "Uh ... no."

"If you last a month I'm buying you a screaming teenager all for your very own. OK, there are some people in this town that we're not to go near. We showed you the Slayer, you remember what she smelled like?"

"Yeah. Euw."

"Good boy. The wind's coming in our direction, take a whiff of entree over there."

Billy Bob took a deep breath, drooling a little at the scent of all that healthy blood. Then his nose wrinkled in disgust. "He smells like the Slayer!"

"Uh huh. And what did the boss say about people who smell like the Slayer?"

"Uh ... leave 'em be."

"Good boy! You may make it after all."

"But, Nathan, the boss and the Wizard smell like the Slayer, too, sometimes."

"And we leave them be. Not too hard, now, is it?"

Billy Bob thought for several seconds. This apparently had gotten no easier after death. "But--what about him?" He nodded towards the man with the bottle. "Somebody's gonna eat him, why not us?"

"Because the whelp's not on the menu," said a new voice.

Nathan turned, sighing in relief. "Hey, boss. Sammy got hold of you?"

Spike stood under the tree and lit a cigarette as he stared at the human. "He got me. How long has this been going on?"

"The guy plopped himself down there about an hour ago. Me and Billy Bob are the only ones who've seen him, but--"

"Come on, assholes!" yelled the human. "Nummy treat here! Where the fuck are you!"

Nathan shrugged. "What do we do?"

"I'll take care of him. You two eaten yet?"

"Yeah, but Billy Bob's still peckish."

"There's a frat party up on campus just letting out, but keep an eye out for the Slayer."

"OK. See you later, boss. Come on, Billy Bob."

Spike waited till the two minions were out of range, then strolled out into the clearing. "Evenin', Harris. Lovely deathwish you've got tonight."

Xander glared at him around the bottle he held to his lips. "Can't have a death wish if the fucking killers won't show up."

"Lovely language, too. Picking up the family trade, are we?"

"Leave me the fuck alone." He looked out into the darkness. "Here, vampires! Free food!"

Spike settled on a nearby tombstone. "Sorry, pet, but you're off the menu. Nobody's going to be dining on you tonight. Or any other night."

"Why not?"

The vampire smiled at the young man. "Because nobody gets to kill you but me."

Xander finished his whiskey as he studied Spike, then he smashed the bottle against the tombstone. He pushed up his shirt sleeve and sliced open his arm with the broken glass. "Let's do it, then." He held out his arm, dripping blood, to Spike.

Spike jumped to his feet. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

"You said you were going to kill me. No time like the present." Xander stared at the cut on his arm and the blood running down.

From somewhere Spike found a scarf to wrap around Xander's arm. "Fuck, that's going to take stitches." At this range, the smell was dizzying, hot and rich and familiar, even if laced with whiskey. He stared at his bloody fingers, then slowly raised them to lick them clean.

"More where that came from," Xander said softly, watching the vampire features come out as Spike licked his lips. He held his arm closer to the sensitive nose.

Golden, half-closed eyes studied him, then Spike took hold of Xander's wrist and proceeded to lick away the blood trails from the arm and hand. Xander closed his eyes, ignoring everything as he waited for the touch of fangs. But it eventually dawned on him that the teeth nibbling on his index finger were blunt. He reluctantly opened his eyes and found Spike in human face as he played with Xander's fingers.

Xander yanked his hand away. "Dammit, Spike, you promised!" He clawed at the knot holding the scarf over his wound. "Dammit, what's it take to get eaten these days?"

"Less than you think, pet" Spike murmured. "Come on, now, stop that." He captured Xander's hands. "And I didn't promise anything."

"Yes, you did, every day it was 'As soon as I get this chip out, I've got a list, and you're all on it. Gonna kill you all, and if I like you I'll make it quick.' Well, the chip's out, the world doesn't need saving, so let's get with the program."

"Oh, I've still got that list, boy. 'I've got a little list,'" he sang to himself. "but I'm not going to start on it just yet."

"Fibber. Liar. William the Bloody, all big talk, no follow-through. Yeah, I figured as much. Hey, vamps!" he yelled. "Spike's a big, fat--"

Spike put one hand over Xander's mouth and the other on the back of his head. "I may not kill you, but I can still make you hurt, boy." He shifted his fingers to close Xander's nose. Xander struggled a moment, then he stopped trying to fight for air and relaxed into Spike's hold.

Spike pulled his hand away. "Jesus, Xander, what the hell are you up to?"

Xander breathed jerkily, as if fighting his body's autonomic reflexes. "What's it look like, fangboy?"

"Like you're trying to commit suicide by vampire." Spike lit another cigarette, hiding his unease behind smoke.

Xander looked away, staring off sullenly. Spike sat down on the headstone of the beloved wife of the man whose tombstone Xander was sitting on and pulled out his flask.

"Gimme," Xander said, reaching.

"You've had enough, whelp."

Xander snorted. "I'm a Harris, I can cope. Gimme."

"I said no. Fuck, Harris, look at you. What the hell are you up to? Drinking yourself stupid, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, by the smell of it. Next thing you know you're going to be shopping for a refrigerator box down by the docks."

"Yeah, and why the hell not? What does it matter anyway? Give me one reason why I shouldn't." He sagged into himself, staring down.

Spike had to admit that his "comfort the depressed" skills were a bit lacking. According to the telly, you were supposed to remind the suicidal of all the things he had to live for: friends, family, loved ones, hope for the future. A quick rundown of the standard list vis a vis Xander Harris, however, showed a series of blanks that were, quite appropriately, depressing. And it wasn't hard to track back to its