Still, the descriptions do start to run together. This village burned with the occupants trapped behind sealed doors. That convent despoiled, all the residents grateful to receive death after the days spent in torture. One could read the tales with detached horror, because one had the option of closing the book at any time and taking comfort in knowing these things happened over a hundred years ago. Ancient history, remote and unthreatening.

It is quite another thing to see the face of the monster who performed those acts, to gaze on the hands that had dripped with the blood of innocents, to see a faint smile where there had once been a laughing, jeering smirk as the helpless screamed and died for his pleasure.

Rupert Giles had stood in the presence of Angelus, Scourge of Europe, butcher, rapist, torturer. Vampire. And he had allowed the monster to walk away.

Oh, he knew the story. The soul, the curse, the century of hiding until Angel had been drawn to the Slayer in search of atonement. Buffy's reports tended more to the points of "total hottie" and "gosh, can he kiss" and, of course, "he's really great in a fight, too." She was young and bedazzled. Some of Angelus' best work had been done with such material.

Rupert couldn't fight the dread in his gut that there was more of Angelus still lurking about than Angel wanted to admit. The Vampire Slayer allowed him to lay his hands on her. She ignored her instincts and calling in order to seek him out. How long before those hands brought her pain instead of pleasure?

Yet . . .

In the library, Rupert had watched Angel scan the books laid out on the table. One of them was open to a history of Angelus' exploits in England, the torment he'd visited on the family of a vampire hunter who was on his trail. Angel glanced over the text, then looked away quickly. Rupert saw something in his face that should have been utterly impossible for a vampire.

Shame.

Could any quest for atonement balance the rivers of blood Angelus had gluttonously spilled? Despite the well-timed rescues and the willingness to be at the beck and call of children less than a tenth his age, at the base of it all was still the creature that had invaded a small parish church during the Christmas Midnight Mass and eviscerated the priest on his own altar. Rupert was a Watcher, and a Watcher's sole concern should be only to take good notes so that the report to England would have the full details of how the notorious Angelus had been rediscovered and finally destroyed.

Except for that girl. That bright, tiny, heroic girl, who lived without a care for the lessons of history. Who fought the monsters at night and who still faced the future with happy anticipation. The girl who loved not wisely and who would weep inconsolably should her love meet his entitled end.

She was the Slayer. Slayers died young, hoping only that their deaths were bought dearly. Proms should have been alien to her; giddy giggles about boys and clothes should never pass her lips. But Rupert watched Buffy and Willow whispering happily together, and his shuttered heart cringed at the fate that waited for her.

He should be calmly preparing for battle, for the fulfillment of the prophecy in the Codex. It was heartbreaking, but inevitable. The Slayer fought and died and a new Slayer was called. All Watchers knew the cycle. His job was to see that her sacrifice was not in vain.

Bollocks to that.

A swift search of the chaos of his desk turned up the note he'd found on the library table after the incident with Marcie. The writing was in normal ballpoint ink, but the letters themselves were archaically formed. The A that served as signature was an intricate swirl that spoke of the days when handwriting was more of an art form than in modern times.

"We both want to help her. Maybe we can help each other." A telephone number finished the note.

He was a Watcher of the Council. She was a Vampire Slayer. Such people do not ask for help from the monsters of the night.

Unless the monsters were the only hope left.

He picked up his phone and dialed the number.

"This is Giles. Rupert Giles. I need to see you."