At fifty-seven, when his wife died, his family convinced him that taking an interest in life again was not a betrayal of her memory. He had as much money as any one man really needed and then some, and he decided that the only thing working twelve hours a day got you was sitting at funerals saying "I should have spent more time with my family." He cut back to a decadent six hours a day and began exploring the brave new world of hobbies.

Cars. As a young man, he'd looked at the cars in the garages of the rich folk, and he could never decide which one he would buy when he was rich. Now that he was really rich, he decided to buy them all. Some of his grandchildren enthusiastically helped, and within a few years the Ramierez Collection was being talked about in the same breath as the Harrah Collection.

Hector hardly slept anymore. Nighttime was a good time to catch up on his car magazines and to surf the Internet for prices and possible new acquisitions. At two a.m. on a Friday night in August, he was the only one up when he looked out his office window and saw lights on in the garage.

The alarms hadn't gone off, so he wasn't too concerned. He probably had forgotten to turn the lights off himself when he left--or one of the grandkids had come by to drool over the new California Shelby. Ricky was still trying to negotiate his way out of being banned from the garage for sneaking several buddies in to look at his grandpa's cool cars.

The garage was the reason he'd bought the house in Rancho Santa Fe, bigger than he was really comfortable with. The previous owner had been a dot-com millionaire who had spent his money just as quickly as he earned it. The collection of Porsches and motorcycles had been one of the first liquidations when the bottom fell out, but the house hadn't been far behind. As Hector approached the garage, he saw a red BMW convertible parked in the shadows to one side of the big front doors. Who did he know who drove a Beemer convertible, he wondered as he stepped through the open doors.

"All right, who's here?" he called.

The place seemed empty, except for the twenty-two cars parked down both sides of the long space. Must be one of the grandkids, then, hoping not to be caught.

"I know you're here, I saw your car outside. Who's here?"

"Evenin', mate."

He seemed to have popped up out of nowhere, the slender blond Englishman in the long black leather coat.

"Who are you?" Hector asked. He looked around again. "Who let you in here?"

Another man appeared, down by the '68 Corvette. "I'm sorry, we let ourselves in. We heard about your collection and thought we'd nip over and have a look."

This man was English, too, and possibly a bit older than the first one. He was dressed in black as well, but more respectably than his friend.

Hector blinked at them, baffled by their casualness. "It's very late."

"We know," the second one said apologetically. "We just got in, though, and thought we could peek in without bothering anyone." The look he gave his friend was oddly challenging.

Hector looked at the garage doors. "You're lucky I apparently forgot to set the alarm."

The blond scratched his ear casually. "Yes, lucky, that. I must say," he added quickly, "you've got some nice cars here."

"Oh, yes, I'm quite pleased with them." Hector smiled happily at having new fellow enthusiasts to chat with. "But I swore that I'd keep the collection under two dozen, and I just spotted a 1969 Detomaso Mangusta on the Internet. I may have to sell something to make room." He looked down the line of cars. "But I'd hate to part with any of them."

The second man scanned the collection with a wistful eye. "I'd make an offer for that '62 E-Type over there, if I could."

The blond shook his head. "No, no, no, Ripper, you're the T-Bird type. The '56, over there, that's a nice set of wheels."

Hector nodded. "My late wife's favorite car." He sighed briefly at the pang of memory. "Which car is your favorite?" he asked the blond.

The man reached up and fiddled with a small gemstone that pierced the top of his right ear. "They're all some very sweet cars, mate, I'll grant you that. The Coupe Deville is very nice." He began strolling down the line. "But I have to confess that, if forced to make a choice, I'd go for this one." He stopped and rested his hand on the black hood of one of Hector's more recent acquisitions.

"Oh, the 1959 DeSoto. That's actually a very rare car."

"Yes, I know." He ran his hands over the front of the hood, smiling fondly. "The Fireflite Sportsman, in Starlight Black. That's why we picked this one, because Dru liked the name of the color. She thought she was the only one who knew the stars were actually black."

Hector glanced at the second man, wondering if he should be concerned about the other one's behavior.

The second man smiled calmly. "Where did you get the DeSoto?" he asked Hector.

"Oh, at a police auction in a little town a couple of hours from here. I got a very good deal on it." He glanced at the car sympathetically. "The poor thing was in terrible shape, with the windows covered in spray paint and really horrible stains on the upholstery. But we've got her all fixed up and looking as good as new."

The blond man walked slowly up the driver's side, running his hand along the fender. "Looks just like she did on that carlot in Memphis, where we got her."

Hector was beginning to feel faintly nervous. "Where you . . ."

"Yep. A clean, one-owner vehicle, she was." He shrugged. "Well, clean being relative, of course."

"But you're not old enough to have bought that car new."

The smile was disturbing. "Never said anything about buying, mate." He tilted his head back thoughtfully. "The salesman was quite happy to come with us on the test drive."

The other man chuckled faintly. "Let me guess, you've been test driving it ever since?"

"In a manner of speaking." He fished in his coat pocket and pulled out a set of keys, then glanced up at Hector. "Unless you've changed the locks, mate."

Hector shook his head. "I brought in a locksmith, he made new keys. This was your car? You're the one who owned it before the police seized it?"

"Which they had no right to do, as I was being illegally detained at the time." He unlocked the driver's door and swung it open. "Well, that buggering squeak's finally gone." He slid into the driver's seat with a contented sigh. "And you've fixed that damned annoying broken spring in the seat. Thank you. Oi! Where's my stereo!"

"It--was missing when I bought it."

"Rotten coppers must have kifed it, no one else in Sunnydale would have the balls to rob my car."

Hector took a step towards the door, suddenly not very comfortable with these strange visitors. Especially not if one of them was the person responsible for some of the things the police said they'd pulled out of the DeSoto.

The second man put his hand on Hector's shoulder. "Don't leave yet, Mr. Ramierez. I'm sure Spike has other questions about what happened to his car."

Despite everything, Hector could not pull away from that hand. "Please . . . I want no trouble."

"Neither do we, sir. No trouble at all."

The DeSoto's engine turned over and caught without a problem. The blond laughed and revved it a few times before turning it off. "Sweeter than she's sounded in forty years," he said, climbing out of the car. "And a full tank of gas, too. Thank you, mate." He strolled over to join them.

Hector kept shaking his head. "Just take it . . . please. I won't even call the police."

"Of course you won't." He stopped in front of Hector, then glanced thoughtfully at his friend. "Unless you want to?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you. The girl at the club earlier was enough for me."

"Right, then." He smiled at Hector. "And because you did such a nice job on the car, this will be very quick."

Hector didn't even have a chance to finish saying "What?" before his neck was snapped and fangs were in his throat.

When Spike was finished, he let the man's body fall gently and grinned at Giles. "So, fancy a new car, do you? I bet we can find the keys to these beauties around here somewhere."

Giles looked around thoughtfully, then shook his head. "I'm really fairly fond of the BMW. The E- Type would just make people think I'm having a midlife crisis or something."

"You're a baby vampire, Ripper, you're too young to have a midlife anything."

"I am not a baby."

"Are."

"Not." He shook his head. "Just get your car and let's go."

"Right. Let me get the spray paint."

"We'll be back in Sunnydale well before dawn, don't deface that lovely car if you don't have to. We can get the windows tinted when we get home."

Spike hesitated, then shrugged. "If it's not dark enough, then I'll get the paint. Fair enough, home we go." He hopped over the body on the floor and strode back to the DeSoto, bouncing happily. "And I'm getting a stereo put back in first thing!"

"Good! You can get those damned discs of yours out of my car then."

***

Willow took another slurp of her frappachino. "So, where do all the ghoulies and ghosties and long- legged beasties go during the summer?" She looked around the dark cemetery half-hopefully, half- worriedly.

"I'm not really sure." Buffy jumped to the top of the waist-high wall and strolled along as she sipped her own drink. "I don't really care, either. I like my summers off."

"Not that you had one, this year."

Buffy sighed. "Summer school, ick. It's so high school. But as of this weekend, that's all over, and I get three whole weeks before regular school starts up again. Mom says she's going to see if she can get us some time at the beach."

"Your Mom's up to swimming? That's great."

"Well, not so much the swimming, but she's definitely up for the wading and the sun bathing." Buffy stopped and looked up at the sky, blinking hard. "She hasn't used the walker in over a week. And she only needs the cane when she's tired."

Willow reached up and squeezed her foot. "I know. Tara has nightmares every now and then, but she's in perfect shape. And Dawn's good and . . ."

Buffy nodded as she trailed off. That did rather exhaust the list of people who were good. "Have you seen Xander in the last few weeks? He returns my calls, but either no one's home when I drop by or he's ignoring me."

Willow dropped onto the top of a nearby tombstone. "I've seen him, but only because I have a key to his place. I went over there the other day and stayed till he came home from work. At least, I think he's still going to work. When he did get home, it was way after dark, and I don't think he was putting in overtime."

Buffy sat on the wall. "What do you think he's been doing?"

"Weird guy stuff. Brooding in the dark and stuff." She bit her lip before continuing. "I think he's been drinking, Buffy."

They were silent for several minutes. "Anya's still around, right?" Buffy asked. "I--haven't been to the Magic Box much, and there's this old guy behind the counter."

"Oh, that's Simon. Anya hired him to look after the place when she's gone on, well, business."

"Vengeance demon business?"

Willow nodded glumly.

Buffy stared out at the night. Everything would seem so normal, so good, for days on end, then something would remind her that her good fortune came at a damned high cost.

What Scoobie meetings that were held anymore were held at the Summers house. Buffy didn't go to the Magic Box at all if she could help it. The wrong faces were there behind the counter. Twice this summer she'd caught herself a block away from the shop, her mind on some problem and the vague refrain of "Giles will know" in the back of her head.

Xander kept begging off from meetings with excuses of being exhausted after a long day at the construction site. The one time Buffy had pushed him, he'd made an almost-snide remark about how swinging a hammer all day might be just a touch more strenuous than sitting in lecture halls on campus.

She had seen Anya at the Magic Box, not long after they'd gotten home from the convent of Saint Eugene. Anya had been pleased to see that Buffy had survived relatively unscathed, but she'd avoided the subject of being a vengeance demon again and why. Buffy had noticed a bride's magazine tucked under some invoices on a shelf behind the counter, and she'd had to leave before she said something out of place. Anya's dreams were her own.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention.

"What is it?" Willow whispered.

"Somebody moving through the bushes over there. Stay here."

Buffy put her drink down on the wall and dropped off.

It had been a quiet summer, as usual, demonically speaking. Rather than being a source of tranquility, though, the quiet had just drawn the tension tighter. She knew what was out there.

Or, rather, who.

She knew Spike was out there. Cigarette butts kept appearing under the trees outside the house, and her mother had occasionally been rinsing out two mugs on some evenings when Buffy got home late. Once when she had been looking out her window around midnight, she'd spotted Dawn strolling down the street, *back* to the house. Buffy had been just about to run outside to give her sister some truly indignant whatfor when a familiar figure had stepped out of the shadows behind Dawn, following her down the street. When Dawn spotted him, she'd started to argue, but the finger-wagging and emphatic gestures at the night made it clear who had the stronger position. A firm pointing finger in the direction of home had sent Dawn on her sulking way. Buffy hadn't relaxed till she heard the front door close and footsteps sneak up the stairs. She'd been about to go deliver a scolding when she spotted a red glow under the tree outside. She watched for about twenty minutes until the glow disappeared.

She hadn't seen any sign of Giles. She didn't go look.

Those vampires who apparently didn't have vacation homes elsewhere were still aggressive and bloodthirsty. More of them, though, seemed to recognize her on sight, and a few had run away on seeing her. Almost as if they'd learned not to mess with a Slayer. She didn't want to think about who might be holding classes.

Three male vampires were hiding in the bushes ahead, and they were too busy with their argument to notice someone creeping up on them from downwind.

"I don't care who they are," one of them snapped. "I'm my own vamp, I do what I want."

The other two looked at each other nervously. "You're not thinking of challenging the boss, are you?" the little one said.

"Oh, the boss, big deal. Some jerk blows up out of nowhere, swaggers around, and everybody bends over for him."

The others looked out at the trees nervously. The third one, a red head, whispered, "Dude, this is Spike. William the Bloody. He's over a hundred years old. He's been in town for years."

The first one blinked a little, then shrugged. "Yeah, Spike. Tell me another one. Last I heard, Spike was a pathetic, neutered lapdog."

The other two actually cringed as they looked over their shoulders.

The braggart straightened. "Look at you two, scared of a big mouth who's playing you with a good story. The real Spike would be draping human entrails over the lamp posts, not giving lectures on people to stay away from. What your boss really is, he's a soft coward."

The little one squeaked and covered his head. Red Head shook his head in disbelief. "And the wizard," he whispered. "Ripper. You think he's soft?"

Braggart had to take a moment. "I don't know what he is. All I saw was a guy standing in the corner and watching everybody."

"He does that," Red Head said. "Watches you. And thinks. And you just hope that whenever he's done thinking that you're not anywhere around if he wants to try something out." He patted the little one on the shoulder. "Tooke here was days getting over Ripper's last experiment."

"Experiments, huh?" Braggart leered. "Is that what they're calling it nowadays?"

Tooke shook his head. "Nothing like that. And he doesn't do it for fun. He just wants to see what happens."

Red Head nodded. "I'd rather have Spike pissed at me than Ripper. Spike'd do you quick. Ripper keeps getting distracted by some neat thing about vampire healing or something." He patted Tooke's shoulder again. "Damned scientific method."

Buffy shivered, both in disgust and recognition. The very thoughtful Giles, terribly curious about how things worked. Distracted, she nudged a branch of the bush she was lurking behind.

The very faint sound was more than enough for vampire senses. All three of them glanced up and began searching the night.

Buffy debated just a moment, then shrugged. "Hi, guys!" she said brightly, stepping out into view.

"Slayer!" Tooke squeaked. He began scrambling away even before getting to his feet.

"Now, that's just rude," Buffy said. "It makes me feel unloved."

Braggart got to his feet. "Slayer, huh? But you're a skinny little thing. I could snap you over my knee."

Buffy pulled out Mr. Pointy and smiled. "You can try."

Tooke took advantage of the distraction to scramble to his feet and run for it. Red Head hesitated, then started sidling after Tooke.

"You damned coward!" Braggart yelled. "Two of us can take her! Your wussy boss is turning you all into cowards! Not fit to be called vampires! It's just one skinny girl!"

Red Head flinched, then grinned nervously at Buffy. It looked rather ridiculous on game face. "He's new in town, ma'am. Doesn't know how we do things here on the Hellmouth."

Buffy glared at him. "How do we do things here on the Hellmouth? You're a vampire, I'm a vampire Slayer. I catch you, I slay you."

"Oh, well, yeah. But there's no reason to be rude about it."

"Look, if your boss is who I think he is, rude does not begin to describe him."

"But he's earned it." Red Head nodded at Braggart. "Him, he hasn't earned it."

Braggart snarled. "I don't have to earn anything! I'm a vampire! I take!" He jumped for Buffy.

A nice, clean, straightforward fight. Vampire vs. Slayer, best being wins. Buffy found herself grinning as she ducked Braggart's first attack.

Red Head watched until the two were completely involved, then began creeping away. The new guy wasn't going to last long, and it was best to be far away when the Slayer looked around for a new target.

He was a good forty feet away when he sensed motion off to the side. One of the Slayer's cronies? He was still trying to spot the source of the movement when a crossbow bolt came out of the darkness and slammed into his heart.

The dust made pretty pattering sounds as it fell.

It was a tough enough fight that she had to pay attention, but nothing that Buffy was too worried about. The big blowhard got in one good kick to her hip, but she rolled with it and came up behind him. She got him in the heart before he could turn around, then jumped back to avoid the spreading dust.

Willow came up, carrying both drinks. "All done?"

Buffy didn't relax as she scanned the darkness. "There were two others, but they ran."

"You sound disappointed."

"If they're running around in the open, I should try to stop them. I'm not used to them being sneaky."

She shrugged and took her drink from Willow. Just as she was taking a sip, a branch in a nearby thicket snapped. She tossed the drink over her shoulder and whirled, stake ready.

"*Levo*," Willow said quickly, catching the drink midair.

Buffy walked carefully to the bushes. Before she got there, she found a pile of fresh vampire dust. She went very still, listening for all she was worth. Faintly she heard Willow's heartbeat and breathing, nearly drowned out by the rustling of her clothes. No one else around that she could tell. After a suspicious moment, she went back to Willow.

"What was it?" Willow asked.

"Dusted vampire. One I didn't do." She blinked, just then noticing her drink, floating at Willow's shoulder. Willow grinned around her own straw. "You caught it."

"I've been practicing." Willow waved the floating cup over to Buffy, who sipped cautiously before accepting it as unchanged. "I'm getting so I can have two spells going at once," Willow went on excitedly. "That's really handy."

Buffy nodded, but she didn't listen that closely as they walked out of the cemetery. She ought to be searching for the mysterious vampire staker, but she wasn't sure she wanted to find out. There were a couple of people out there who might be moved to watch her back but who she didn't want to deal with.

Willow continued to chatter, but Buffy kept her attention on the landscape and tried not to feel lonely. Slayers always had Watchers, someone who knew the job, knew the choices, knew the risks. She didn't like having her friends out on the line with her, because of the dangers, but she didn't want to be alone with this job, either.

She'd talked generalities with her mother, who was surprisingly wise when it came to a job you were duty bound to perform, but Joyce couldn't help the occasional Mom-twinge that said to get her daughter as far away from this nasty job as she could.

She missed Giles so much. His phone number was still in her wallet, and more than once she'd dialed the first six numbers and sat with her finger over the last button until the phone raspberried her and cut off.

He was a vampire. Her Watcher was dead. All the writings she'd seen were clear: the vampire is not the same as the living person, the cleanest thing to do was to kill them as quickly as possible and mourn the first death that had replaced the person with the demon.

She'd never lost someone she knew--or at least, knew well. Harmony was as mind-bogglingly shallow as a vampire as she was as a human. Buffy couldn't mourn Harmony, she was too busy shaking her head in disbelief.

She should ask Xander, he would know more how she felt, because of--oh, gosh, what was the boy's name? Jimmy? Joseph? Damn it, she was supposed to know these things.

She started to ask Willow, but Willow was still talking about magic. Buffy supposed it made sense. Tara had been saved by magic, and so much of that siege had involved Willow flinging spells around. Of course the two witches would want to study more, especially as a way to reconnect after Tara's illness. Willow had made jokes before about attending her own summer school.

She turned her attention back to the darkness, wondering who else was out there.

***

Friday night, date night. Xander walked down the hallway to Anya's apartment with a bouquet of chocolate roses. She agreed that flowers were pretty, but she had an odd quirk about having what she called plant corpses around the house. Which made odd, Anya sense.

He paused at her front door to listen for signs of her presence. They'd been trying all summer to recreate something resembling a relationship, but between the shop and the demon biz, free time was something Anya didn't have a lot of. She had been practically living with him before the trip to the convent, but after getting her old job back they'd decided some reorganization time was in order. Which was just as well: when Anya got the call that a scorned woman was looking for some payback, she headed out immediately. Xander found it less upsetting to stop by her place to find a note saying, "Off to Vladivostok, love you," then to have her teleporting out of his place on her missions of unmercy.

The stereo inside was playing something upbeat, so she was home. He knocked on the door.

"Come in if you're Xander!" came the answering call.

He paused to savor the sound of her voice. Even a whole summer later, Xander still had trouble replacing the image of Anya dying in his arms with the ongoing pictures of the perky woman bustling through her world. Perky demon. He shook his head firmly and went in.

For a couple of hours they pretended they were nothing but a devoted couple catching up on the day's news over dinner. They traded stories of the shop and of the construction site over some surprisingly good lasagna. Dessert was apple pie a la mode--Xander suspected supermarket pie meets a few seconds in the microwave for warmth, but he didn't care because it was good--and they took their plates over to the couch to catch some sitcoms on TV while they ate and leaned against each other.

The evening was about to progress to the "kissing leading to sex" part of the schedule when a puff of air moved through the room, followed by a woman's voice saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt, Anyanka! I didn't know you had a guest."

Anya sighed and straightened up from her very comfy spot on Xander's shoulder. "This isn't a guest, Halfrek, this is Xander."

The woman standing in the middle of the entryway--where she hadn't been two seconds before--was the fluffy, pretty sort. She blinked at Xander in eager curiosity. "Oh, so *this* is Xander. He's pretty."

"Thanks," Xander said with a frown. He raised an eyebrow at Anya, who sighed.

"Halfrek, Xander Harris. Xander, Halfrek. She's a friend from work."

He grimaced. "I'm thinking you don't mean the Magic Box."

Halfrek bounced over to the couch. "No, I'm a vengeance demon, too. Hi." She held out her hand.

Xander shook her hand gently. "So, vengeance demon. Who do you venge for?"

Her smile slipped a few points. "Children. I work with kids."

He blinked in surprise. "Then how come none of my wishes as a kid came true?"

"It's--complicated." Halfrek turned back to Anya. "So, sweetie."

Anya shook her head. "I have tonight off. It's down on the schedule. D'Hoffryn himself initialed it."

"Well, that was before this guy in Paris cleaned out the bank accounts, ran off with his secretary, and left his wife and four kids homeless and bankrupt. It's a two-for-one deal. Plus--Paris!"

Anya started to look intrigued, then shook her head again very firmly. "Night off. Night off with Xander. Paris is . . ." She tossed her head. "I've seen Paris. I haven't seen Xander all week." She leaned back against his shoulder.

Halfrek sighed. "Anya, Mme. DuCharles is whipping up potions and firing up the hand of glory as we speak. The kids are holding candles at the edge of the circle and chanting. We're up, honey."

"No. Get somebody else." But the smile she gave Xander was uncertain.

Xander sighed. "Honey, if you've got to go--"

"No. It's on the schedule. If we start ignoring the schedule, then chaos has won and the bunnies are members of the board." She shuddered and dropped her head firmly onto Xander's shoulder.

Halfrek looked to the ceiling for guidance. "Look, if it's such a big deal, why don't you just bring him with us?"

Anya started to answer, paused, then looked at Xander. "Have you ever been to Paris?"

"I've been to Oxnard."

"Oxnard isn't Paris."

"No, it isn't. But Oxnard is where I've been."

"You'd like Paris," she grinned. "It's very pretty and old, and if you ignore the Frenchpeople, it's a very nice place. We could stroll along the river and listen to the music."

Xander blinked and thought about it. He'd only ever been out of the state of California once, and he hadn't quite given up his dream of traveling and seeing something of the world. The idea of strolling along a river in a romantic city hand in hand with Anya was actually pretty appealing.

Halfrek nodded at the look on his face. "Xander, yes, come along and wait in some nice little Left Bank cafe while we finish with Mme. DuCharles' wish, then you and Anya can have a wonderful time."

Anya sighed. "Yes, we should get that out of the way first. Then I wouldn't be distracted."

"So," Xander said slowly, "we'd have our romantic tour of Paris after . . ."

Anya shrugged sadly. "Can't be helped. Work before pleasure."

"And I'd wait in a cafe someplace while you and Halfrek here . . ."

"Oh, we can talk Mme. DuCharles into something quick for her husband, then we'd have most of the weekend for ourselves."

Somehow Xander didn't see himself sitting in some restaurant, calmly waiting for Anya to finish eviscerating some poor schmoe so they could have a nice little vacation.

He put on his best fake smile. "You go on, sweetie. Have fun in Paris."

Anya frowned. "But I'd rather spend time with you."

Halfrek shifted impatiently but said nothing. Anya looked at her unhappily.

Xander hugged her. "When the boss calls, we jump. Go on, you don't want the big guy pissed at you."

She pouted. "He's going to owe me big time." She leaned up to kiss him. "I'll call you when I get back."

"Sure thing. Be careful."

"Always am. Bye bye." She smiled at him, touched the amulet hanging at her neck, and was gone, Halfrek seconds behind her.

He wandered the apartment, cleaning up for lack of anything better to do on his Friday night. He even washed the dishes, though that was more for avoiding complaints about lifeforms growing in the sink when Anya got back. Which might not be for several days, now that she was out and about with a buddy. She and Halfrek gave off a Buffy/Willow vibe that suggested some serious shopping might be in order after Monsieur Schmuck was dealt with.

The emptiness of the apartment was making Xander think some unpleasant thoughts about loneliness, so he headed home, where he could at least fill the silence with country music. The blinking light on his answering machine, though, gave him hope that maybe there was evil mayhem afoot to distract him.

The voice surprised him. "Hello, Xander, this is Joyce Summers. If you're free this weekend, could I beg a large favor of you? It would involve driving and being out of town, so if you have plans, please don't worry about it. Thanks."

Roadtrip out of town, by the sound of it. Buffy's mom hadn't quite yet been cleared for the piloting of small land vessels yet, so he could understand why she was looking for a driver. Buffy was slowly becoming reliable in a town setting, but open freeways tended to encourage her to put the pedal down and trust to her Slayer reflexes when navigating heavy traffic at 80 miles per hour. Not particularly soothing for a recovering woman.

And being out of town meant being out of town when Anya was out of town. Much better than being in town thinking of Anya being out of town.

Still fairly early. He picked up the phone. Buffy answered. "Summers residence."

"Harris Chauffeur Service, someone called from this location?"

"Oh! Xander!"

He frowned. "Oh. Buffy." Granted, he hadn't had too many heart to hearts with her over the last few months, but that was no reason to sound so shocked to hear from him.

She had the grace to sound apologetic. "I'm sorry, it's just--I haven't heard from you in a while. Um, how's stuff?"

"Stuff-like. How's your stuff?"

"Similarly stuff-like. So, Mom's asking you to drive on her adventure?"

"Looks like. What's up, business trip to LA?"

That uneasy not-sound came from her again. "Um, no. She's, um--"

"Buffy . . ."

"Sorry." Why was she taking a deep breath? "Mom needs someone to drive her up to the Convent of St. Eugene. She's been collecting clothes and stuff that she thinks they need. Xander?"

Dark night, screams of pain, blood on his hands, literally and figuratively. Two mass graves.

A new voice in his ear. "Xander? Are you there?"

"Mrs. Summers, hey. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Xander. Thank you for calling me back, but you don't have to do this if you don't want to." Her voice was very understanding. Too understanding.

"No, I'm fine. I'm free this weekend, I'm happy to help."

"Xander--"

"When do you need me over there?"

Joyce was silent for a few seconds. "Nine o'clock?"

"I'll be there, nine o'clock."

"Wonderful, thank you. Buffy wants to talk to you, just a moment."

The thought of hanging up drifted past in the back of his mind, but he let the thought go.

"So," Buffy's perky voice said, "how's work and everything?"

"Work is work. I'm up for crew chief."

"Well, yay, you."

"What about you? Willow said you were doing the summer school thing."

"Yeah, just finished up."

"Did you pass?"

"Yes, I passed. I almost got an A in American history."

"Let me guess, Dawn helped you."

"If you were closer I'd bap you. And she only helped me keep the Jacksons and Johnsons straight with the presidents. She's no Giles, but she's not bad."

She caught her breath after that sentence, as if just realizing she'd used the G word. Xander knew he should comment, but his mind stayed on the mundane path.

"So what are you taking this year?" he asked.

"I've--still got a couple of things to decide on. I got a letter saying I'd have to declare a major this year, no more putting it off. I don't know what to tell them."

"Well . . ." He remembered conversations like this their senior year of high school, Buffy and Willow intently debating options for a future that seemed a whole lot broader than the one open to himself. "What's Willow say?"

"Oh, she just goes on about whether she should double major in computers and psychology or take something simple so she can spend more time with magic. Mom says I should go with history, since I spend so much time looking through old books anyway."

"Makes sense."

"Except I don't think my professors are too interested in the uprising of the Pringer Gnomes against the chaos demons."

"Probably not."

He heard her settling in comfortably, ready for a long chatter about life in Buffyland. Once upon a time these talks were the highlight of his existence, giving him entrance to the mysterious, thrilling world of girls and, especially, Buffy. He suspected, though, that she wasn't too interested in the life of a construction worker and that talking might lead to, well, *talking*. About *things*. Willow kept trying to have those kinds of talks, about how he felt and how he was dealing. He dealt, what else was he supposed to do?

And if he had nightmares that involved burying bodies that opened their eyes and asked him "Why?", how was mentioning that to anyone going to help? If hearing cars backfire gave him the shakes for half an hour, that was nobody's business but his own. And lots of people threw up when they smelled the rank, old blood of meat going bad in the back of the fridge.

"You know, Buff," he said, interrupting her description of the gross unfairness of a professor who required a paper a week in a summer school class, "if I'm taking your mother on a long drive tomorrow, I ought to get to bed."

"Oh. Yeah, you're probably right. Xander?"

"Yeah?" he asked cautiously.

She started a couple of words, then settled on, "I love you, you know."

He swallowed hard. "Love you, too, Buffy. Night."

"Night."

After a typical night of uneasy sleep, Xander arrived at the Summers house, ready for a long day's drive. He was very carefully not thinking about the destination, only thinking about freeways and offramps.

Joyce answered the door. "Good morning, Xander. Thank you so much for helping me with this."

"De nada, Mrs. Summers."

Dawn came bouncing down the stairs. "Hey, Xander," she called as she headed for the kitchen.

"Hey, Dawn." Xander watched her for a few moments, feeling almost cheerful. There was a reason they'd gone through so much hell last spring, and saving the world was only part of it.

"Have you had breakfast?" Joyce asked.

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked," she said with a semi-stern frown.

He caved graciously. "I had part of breakfast."

"Then you can help us finish off the bacon." She briefly balanced herself with a hand on the wall as she turned for the kitchen, then walked off with only the faintest of limps.

Xander nodded in satisfaction but made a mental note to make frequent stops today to let the recuperating woman stretch her legs.

Buffy was on stove duty, doing battle with the bacon, while Dawn foraged in the cabinets.

"Where are the Rice Chex? There are supposed to be Rice Chex."

Xander spotted both Buffy's look of guilt and the Rice Chex box sticking out of the recycling bin by the back door. He decided to stay out of the discussion.

"If we're out, we'll get more," Joyce said. She made her way to the bulletin board on the wall, picked up the pen hanging by a string, and added Rice Chex to the shopping list. She studied the writing for a few moments, looking both dismayed and pleased. "Well, at least it's legible. Is there food for the very nice young man who's driving me?"

"We are with bacon," Buffy declared. "And we do have cereal if you want."

Dawn pulled out a box. "Fruity Pebbles? I'm not a kid anymore." She looked at her sister suspiciously. "I heard that." Buffy hid her follow-up snicker behind a roll of paper towels.

"Or," Xander offered, "I could stop at the McDonald's on the way out." But he did take a piece of bacon from the platter Buffy put on the table.

The toaster popped up. "Eggos!" Dawn caroled. She placed two on a plate that went in front of Joyce, then two on a plate she kept hold of. She stuck her tongue out at Buffy when her sister pouted. "There's more, hold your horses." Four more went in the toaster.

Xander tried to keep his snicker to himself, but Joyce caught it and smiled at him. "Yes, it's always like this." She didn't try to hide the smile from her daughters. Dawn ducked her head and focused on breakfast. Buffy smiled back, but it faded quickly.

"So," Joyce said brightly, "Dawn, what do you have planned for the weekend, with the bad old mom out of town?"

"Trying to avoid the bad old big sister, who isn't going out of town." Dawn wrinkled her nose right back at Buffy. "You remember, I'm going to Janet's tonight. You're taking a cell phone, right?"

"Yes, we are, and the AAA is paid up and the spare tire's in good shape and I had the engine checked last week. What about you, Buffy?"

"I might go see if Willow wants to go Bronzing, maybe watch her flip through the college catalog to see if there are any other general requirement classes she can take before having to settle on a major." She poured herself some milk. "Gosh, a quiet night. I've probably hexed myself just thinking the idea." She looked sternly at her mother. "So, you're going to call when you get up there, right?"

"Sweetie, I won't be surprised if they don't have cellular coverage up there. We'll call before we get out of range."

Buffy turned to Xander. "And you won't drive more than ten miles over the speed limit, right?"

Xander accepted his own pair of Eggos from Dawn, plus the syrup and butter. "I think you may have mistaken me for someone else in this room who needs reminding of speed limits. We'll be fine, Buffy."

She was still frowning a little as she dug into her own Eggos.

They ate in relative silence for a few minutes. Buffy started to speak then stopped so often that Joyce finally put down her fork. "Yes?" she asked patiently.

"Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Sweetheart, I made it before under far worse conditions."

Buffy shrugged. "I know, but . . ."

Joyce got up to put her plate in the sink and kissed Buffy in passing. "I'll be fine. Xander will be with me."

Xander kept his head down over his plate so no one could see his grin. It was nice to have someone appreciate him. When he glanced up to get his milk glass, he saw Buffy watching him. And almost frowning. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she paid attention to her waffles again.

Joyce went into reduced bustle mode as she gathered her things for the trip. Xander followed her out to the car to get out from under Buffy's thoughtful eye. The back of the Land Rover was full of boxes.

"Christmas in August?" he asked.

Joyce grinned. "I've been taking donations at the gallery all summer, after I got back to work. I told everybody it was for a convent in Honduras."

"What are you taking them?"

"Some new gardening tools, some bolts of cloth, shoes and things. Canned food. It's not easy shopping for people who have nothing and don't want anything."

He thought a moment, then went to his own car. He hauled out his tool box and belt and carried them to the Land Rover. "They might need some things fixed," he explained with an attempt at an offhand shrug.

Joyce nodded. "Good idea." She took a deep breath. "Leave in fifteen minutes?"

"Sounds like a plan."

A few last minute things needed dealt with before they hit the road. After his own turn in the Summers bathroom, he found Buffy waiting for him near the stairs.

"Yes, I'm going to drive carefully and not bounce her around and make sure she's all right," he said to forestall the lecture he saw brooding in her eyes.

She nodded with a small smile. "If she doesn't seem OK, you bring her straight home, all right?"

"I promise. But she's right, she's in a lot better shape than the last time she made this trip."

"Yeah, but then we were all there too. This time it's just you."

"I think I'm up to looking after your mother."

"I know, it's just . . ."

That came out a half second too slow, and she didn't meet his eyes when she shrugged again.

She didn't trust him to look after her mother, not really. Xander kept himself from asking what was wrong, afraid she'd tell him. "You could come with us."

"I shouldn't leave town. There have been a couple of weird things the past couple of days that I need to keep an eye on. Besides, Mom said no."

He gave her a look of "Well, then?" If she wanted to say something, she was going to have to make the first move. He wasn't in the mood to be Volunteering Boy.

"Xander!" came from Joyce downstairs.

"Gotta go," he said, smiling in as friendly a way as he could manage.

"Yeah. Xander--"

He turned from the stairs, his gut twisting in dread. She looked undecided, then she hugged him instead of saying whatever was on her mind. He hugged her back.

"Xander, come on!"

Buffy grinned. "Better go. That's her 'I'm not writing you another excuse note' voice."

"And you know this tone of voice well?"

Her laugh followed him down the stairs.

Dawn hugged him in passing. "Bye, Xander, drive careful."

"Always do. Don't do anything stupid that blows up in your face and you have to admit to your mother later."

"Sure thing."

Joyce was already by the car, looking impatient. Xander held the passenger door for her and lent a hand for balance as she climbed in. She tapped her fingers on the arm rest as he got behind the wheel.

"Are we in a hurry?" he asked.

She caught herself, then laughed. "I love them dearly, but Buffy and Dawn do tend to hover. I'm--kind of looking forward to having a couple of days without someone watching me all the time."

"Sorry," he shrugged, "I promised." He started the engine, put it in reverse, then hesitated. "We forgot the most important part of the trip."

"What?" Joyce frowned.

"Music. And who gets to pick it. I've got CD's in my tool box."

"My car, I get first pick."

Xander watched anxiously as she opened the storage unit between the front seats and pulled out a CD binder. Maybe she'd at least have something marginally cool, like Elvis when he was still country.

Joyce smiled at him. "What do you think of Led Zeppelin?"

"Who?"

"Them, too."

"Huh?"

She pretended to think about it. "I don't think I have them." She laughed at the look on his face. "Get us on the road, Xander, and you can hear proper old fogey music. Maybe some Hendrix," she mused as she flipped through the CD's.

He sighed and put his trust in U-2 and, if necessary, Roy Orbison.

***

The flick of something soft and fuzzy across her nose brought Tara out of a deep, comfy sleep. She opened her eyes slightly, unwilling to move in case she decided that slipping back into dreamland was the best decision she could make in the next few minutes. Kitten tails. Or, rather, the fluffy tails of spoiled cats who assumed that any empty pillow was fair game to become a cat bed. Miss Kitty was still circling on Willow's pillow, creating a perfect bed to whatever demanding standards cats followed. One more flick to settle her tail over her front legs, and Miss Kitty settled down to sleep.

Tara decided that was a very good idea, then the thought "Where's Willow?" drifted past her mind. Long Saturday mornings were generally for both of them to laze around. She turned her head just a little.

Willow sat at her desk, studying a book. Tara smiled. Dear obsessive-compulsive vacation studier. Probably getting a head start on the new semester. She debated pouting loudly about books being more appealing than girlfriends.

She took a breath to speak then realized Willow was speaking quietly to herself as she read. Something that sounded close to Latin, but more guttural. A sickly grey glow appeared over the desk. Willow glanced up at it and frowned. She opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, then looked back down at the book. She read silently for a few seconds, glanced back up, then shook her head.

"Depart," she whispered, and the glow faded. She hmphed in frustration and bent back over the book. An old, leather-bound book, Tara noticed, not one of the volumes likely to appear on the normal textbook lists of UC Sunnydale.

Miss Kitty yawned loudly, making Tara twitch. Willow glanced up at the movement.

"Bad kitty, waking up Mama Tara." Willow tucked the book into a stack of others on her desk, then came over to the bed. "Good morning, sweetie."

Tara accepted the kiss happily. "Good morning. What were you reading?"

Willow blinked. "Reading? Oh, just getting a head start on that stupid business management course I have to take this year. Not like I'm ever going to be managing an office or something. I thought you were going to sleep for hours."

"You should have woken me."

"Oh, but you looked so cute, curled up with Miss Kitty."

She leaned down for another kiss, and Tara let herself be distracted. An hour later, when they left to find breakfast/lunch/whatever, Tara glanced at Willow's desk. The stack of books seemed perfectly normal, just an average stack of text books with bright covers. Nothing leather bound or more than five years old.

"Come on, honey," Willow said in the hall, holding out a hand. "I'm hungry."

Tara took her lover's hand and told herself to stop worrying.

***

The drive north passed surprisingly pleasantly. Xander argued music with Joyce till they found some common ground with Sting and the Police. However, Xander inadvertently started a 75-mile argument with the statement "Carlos Santana--didn't he play with Matchbox 20?"

A full Santana CD later, he managed to get a word in edgewise. "I'm not saying he's not good, I'm just saying I never heard of him before. Have you ever heard of Matchbox 20?"

Joyce shrugged. "I've heard Buffy play them. They're--not bad. They can actually play melodies. Unlike a lot of bands these days."

Xander laughed. "Oh, yeah, bands these days. I have heard that Led Zeppelin bunch, and you can hardly understand that lead singer of theirs. That 'Stairway to Heaven' thing, what the heck is that about, anyway?"

He thought Joyce might just have another aneurysm on him, the way she was looking at him, and then what the hell was he going to do? Leave her with a local hospital, change his name, and start hitching rides to far points?

She laughed, finally. "All right, fair point. Half the time I can't understand Robert Plant, either. It helps if you're stoned. Watch the road!"

He managed to stop staring at her in shock, but it took a little before he could get his jaw to stop hanging open in disbelief.

"You can't say stuff like that! Just say no! D.A.R.E.! This is your brain on drugs! That's what they've been teaching us in school, and you just come out and say Led Zeppelin makes sense if you're stoned?"

Joyce shrugged. "Well, that's what I heard. From the kids in school. I'm not sure 'Kashmir' ever made a great deal of sense." She flipped through her CD binder. "I think I have some if you want to hear it."

"Druggie music." He realized he was sounding like Mr. Martin the Health Teacher and went for a different tack. "I've got some Hank Williams Jr." He laughed at the look of dismay on Joyce's face. "Or how about Waylon and Willie?"

"How about the Stones?"

"At least I've heard of them. Keith Richards. He's one of the undead, isn't he."

She snickered. "If he was one of the undead, do you think he'd look like that?"

"Point," he laughed. "Still, those are some snaggly looking old guys."

Joyce didn't argue as she turned to another page in her binder. "I've got 'Steel Wheels' and 'Voodoo Lounge.' Shall I put one in?"

"Sure, bring on the scary grandpas."

The sign warning that the Los Padres National Forest exit was coming up soon went by. Xander let the navigational portion of his mind make note of that, but he kept his thinking centers focused on old music rather than on destinations.

They stopped for lunch at the same restaurant as they'd stopped at before. The place was full of travellers this time, families on vacation, hikers headed for the mountains, people with maps and sunburns.

"And gas prices are easily twenty cents more per gallon than they were in the spring," Xander observed as they were finally shown to a table.

"So are the food prices," Joyce added, studying her menu.

"If you cover the refueling, I'll cover lunch." He saw her look at him in uncertainty. "I've been putting in a lot of overtime, I can easily spring for a tourist-priced lunch."

She smiled graciously. "All right, then. Deal."

To his surprise, the lunch she ordered paid mere lip-service to the idea of either healthy or low-cal. She bit into her bacon cheeseburger with delight, then made a noise of inquiry at his stare.

"You don't eat like a girl," he blurted out.

She swallowed and smiled. "Life is short. Eat a cheeseburger."

He nodded but his smile was a little forced. Life is short. Damned straight.

They worked through their burgers and fries and drinks in peaceful silence for ten minutes. When Joyce took a deep breath over her last fry, though, Xander braced himself.

"How's Anya?" she asked, paying more attention to the puddle of ketchup on her plate than to him.

"She's fine." He licked a finger and began picking up the stray sesame seeds from his hamburger bun. He finally couldn't help looking up at Joyce's continuing silence. She was wearing the Concerned Parent face, a look that only seemed to get directed at him by people he wasn't related to. "Don't, please," he said as she took another breath.

"Xander--"

"Please!"

She frowned a moment longer, then reached across the table to pat his hand. "All right, I'm sorry. It's just--we worry."

"Everything's fine." He couldn't help smiling just a little at the "I don't believe you" that went over Joyce's face. "We're--managing."

"And that odd--person. With the horns. Who you made the deal with. What about him?"

"D'Hoffryn. Anya's boss." He found some sesame seeds he'd missed. "Haven't seen him. When he shows I'll deal. When did you want to get back on the road?'

She frowned a moment more, then nodded. "We probably should get going. I'll meet you at the car."

Xander signaled for the check as he watched Joyce make her careful way across the restaurant. That hadn't gone nearly as bad as he'd been afraid of. And maybe she'd leave the subject alone. Too bad Buffy and Willow wouldn't take No for an answer on discussing Anya and the deal. He had no idea what D'Hoffryn had in mind. The demon might hold on to that debt for twenty years or something. What could the master of vengeance demons possibly need from one human? Best not think too long in that direction.

The waitress arrived with the check, and he headed for the cashier. Some snacks and some drinks for the rest of the drive, that would keep his mind away from things that were best left alone.

Johnny Cash and Bruce Springsteen filled most of the air on the rest of the trip into the mountains. Joyce told a tale of sneaking into a Springsteen concert, but only after making Xander swear he'd never tell Buffy. The mother-daughter negotiating field was delicately balanced enough without adding material like Joyce lying to her own mother about a sleep-over with a friend as cover for going to the forbidden concert.

The side roads that led away from the park entrance were busier at this time of year. By the time they reached the rutted turnoff marked by the small roadside shrine of Saint Eugene, though, they hadn't seen another vehicle for half an hour. Xander slowed for the turn, then hesitated.

Joyce started to ask what was wrong, but then she remembered Anya hopping out of the bus to identify the shrine on the last trip up here. If there had been anyone else to ask to drive her up here, she would have asked them. She hated dragging Xander through the memories of everything that had happened.

Xander glanced over at her cautiously, but he seemed to relax when she didn't say anything. Without a word, he drove on.

The air was drier and dustier in August. Rabbits and mule deer leaped out of hiding in the bushes as the car drove past. Joyce lowered her window and leaned out, letting the wind blow through her hair. It made a good cover for the tears that threatened.

This was the summer she thought she'd never see. When doctors used words like glioma and cerebrum and operable, a woman's long-term planning was suddenly defined in days and weeks, not seasons. Then the Glory thing had blown up, and it was all Joyce could do to hang on to Dawn's survival, much less her own. It had taken weeks after Glory's defeat for Joyce to start thinking again of the future as something that might be counted in years. She'd had a follow-up visit with her neurosurgeon three days ago, and Dr. Isaacs had told her that all the scans showed clean. All that was left to do was to continue her exercises to regain what function she could, plus a check-up in a year, just to be sure.

She sniffed, hoping the sound of the wheels on the dirt road would cover it. She was going to be all right. Her daughters were safe. The world was a beautiful place. It was such a damned shame that not everyone got to feel like this.

She pulled her head in and looked at Xander, who was glaring out at the road. No one as young as he should have those lines between his eyebrows. "Thank you," she said.

He blinked in surprise. "Huh? Um, you're welcome, I guess. For what?"

"For driving me this weekend. I know this brings up bad memories--and, don't worry, I'm not going to go into them anymore. But it makes it even more kind of you to come all this way with me."

He shrugged and started to reel off some witty reply, then subsided. "You're welcome," he finally said. "And thank you, too."

She nodded and started watching ahead for the first sign of the convent.

The valley opened before them in the hot summer afternoon. The wheat in the field was as tall as the windows of the Land Rover, and the heavy stalks waved in the breeze like a patriotic commercial.

Joyce sighed in pleasure. "It looks just like my uncle's place in the Imperial Valley. I always loved watching the different colors of the crops in the wind."

Xander peered briefly out into the fields. "Do you see anybody working?"

"They're probably all inside. Wheat doesn't really need much looking after at this time of year. Oh, I wish there was a way I could have warned them we were coming, I hate just dropping in on people like this."

The gates--roughly repaired but whole--were still open to all comers. Xander fought the shiver of deja vu that took him as he drove carefully through the gateway, mindful of the chickens milling around the courtyard. He turned off the engine, then realized he was reluctant to raise his eyes from staring at the steering wheel. The last time he'd seen this courtyard, the bullet holes were still fresh in the walls, the courtyard still showed dark stains, and the smell of blood hung in the background.

Finally he forced himself to look up--at a view as pristine and peaceful as the last time he'd driven into this place. The walls of the buildings were newly whitewashed; the dirt of the courtyard was neatly raked. The timelessness of the place rolled on, unmarked by the events of a couple of very busy days in its long history. He took a deep breath and was able to let it out without any of the shakiness he'd been afraid of.

From out of the chapel came a familiar figure. Sister Agnes peered at the vehicle curiously, then a huge smile appeared. "Joyce Summers? Oh, blessed Mother, how wonderful to see you!"

Joyce unsnapped her seatbelt and opened her door. "Careful!" Xander said quickly as she climbed out, but she neither paid attention to him nor to any issues of her balance. She did hold on to the door for a moment to regain her equilibrium, then took a few steps to meet the Mother Superior's hug.

Other sisters appeared from various spots, and they all sounded quite pleased and excited to see the visitors. Giving a completely fake sigh of resignation, Xander also climbed out of the Land Rover, ready to greet the women who had declared themselves proxy aunts.

Sister Agnes, though, got to him first. "Xander, dear boy," she said as she hugged him. She pulled back to look at him, but she didn't say any of the things he expected. She only studied him for several moments, nodded briefly to herself, then hugged him again. He was hugging her back when something impacted against his left ankle.

"Za-er! Za-er!"

"What the--" He looked down to find a somewhat bigger Baynar glued to his leg, grinning up at him in toothy demon delight. "Did you just say my name?"

Sister Agnes laughed. "Yes, his English is getting much better. We now at least know what language he's babbling incomprehensibly at us in."

Baynar bounced. "Za-er!"

Xander finally laughed. "Hey, little dude." He crouched down and scooped up the little demon into a fierce hug.

The sisters tried to refuse the gifts Joyce had brought, but for once they had run into a force more powerful than their certain faith: the generosity of a grateful woman. While Sister Agnes was still in the process of graciously giving in, Xander shrugged and began unloading boxes from the Land Rover. He asked Baynar for directions, and the little demon happily led the way to the kitchen and to the storage rooms.

He found Savlin, Baynar's mother, in the tool shed, sharpening a hoe. The large Minoto smiled at Xander. "You have returned."

"So I have."

Savlin came over and made what seemed to be pleased noises over the box of hand tools Xander had brought in.

"I thought you and your family were going to San Francisco," Xander said as he helped her unpack the pruning shears and trowels.

"We have been waiting for word about my mate, Baynar's father, yes. He was supposed to meet us here. He will be here in another few days, then we will go on to the city to join the rest of our clan." She looked down at Baynar, who was still staying close to Xander's leg. "I am pleased we are able to see you again."

Xander shrugged and grinned. "Kind of nice to see you and the little rugrat, too." He grinned down at Baynar, who hissed and bounced before tugging on Xander's pantleg.

"Now," Baynar said, pointing to the door. "Now."

"Why am I not surprised that he's learned that word," Xander said to Savlin with a smile.

Savlin shook her head. "He is young, and the world does not move quickly enough for him. Go, I shall unpack these."

"Cool, thanks." He held his hand out to Baynar. "OK, little dude, where are we off to?" Baynar squealed and began tugging Xander off with surprising strength.

He was conducted on a tour of the convent, narrated in a fairly incomprehensible mix of Minoto hisses and stray English words. Baynar pointed out the repaired gate, the chicken coops, the grape arbor, then led the way out to show off the cows and the plowhorse. The nuns they passed all smiled at him and said how nice it was to see him again. Something in his spine unkinked, and he felt like he was standing straight for the first time in weeks.

As they rounded the back wall of the convent, Baynar paused with a small squeak. Xander looked at him and saw the little demon was staring up the slope at the olive grove--and the graveyard laying there.

"Let's not, OK?" he said tightly.

Baynar looked up at him, a worried look on his face, then he turned around and led the way back the way they'd come.

They found Savlin and the rest of the Minoto coming in from the field. There were two more of the demons than had been present in the spring, and they stared uncertainly at Xander. Savlin and the others hissed quickly at them, but that didn't stop them staring.

"Not used to humans, huh?" Xander said.

Savlin nodded. "We are telling them that you are a good human, that you are the one who defended us that long night against the bad men and against Glory."

He blushed hard and felt a little sick. "It wasn't just me. Buffy and--and Giles did the heavy lifting on taking Glory down. Hell, even Spike helped."

"Yes, we have told them. It is a good story to tell on a summer night when we are sitting under the stars, frightening and heroic."

The two newcomers were whispering together and giving him furtive looks. But they didn't look like nervous looks. He took a step away. "It wasn't like that--well, maybe it was. Frightening, anyway. But I just did what I had to."

Savlin nodded again. "Yes, a good tale. A strong tale. There have been several who have come to hear of the destruction of Glory."

"What? People have come here . . ."

"The word has spread. When we go to the city, there will be many who will seek us out to hear the story from ones who witnessed it."

And that was nausea twisting his gut. "Look, please, you can't--I don't want--what are you telling them?"

She tilted her head, a bit perplexed. "The truth. You and your friends stood against an army and would not let them do us harm. And when Glory came, you fought her as well. It was a brave thing, and we are honored to have witnessed it."

Xander didn't know why her words hurt so much. There had been no time for bravery, only for fear and resignation and the knowledge that there were no choices. It shouldn't be a story to be told over beers to a bunch of people who had no idea what had happened. He hated the idea that strangers knew what he had done.

One of the others hissed at Savlin, who nodded and hefted her shovel. "We must get the tools put away before supper. We shall talk later, Xander Harris." She spoke briefly to her son, who nodded quickly. "Baynar will try to tell you that he does not need to wash before he eats. Do not believe him."

"Yeah, OK."

The Minoto continued inside the convent, and Baynar tugged on Xander's hand, leading the way down the road to show him something in the fields. Xander focused on the high-pitched voice instead of the screams in his memory.

***

Sister Agnes brought tea out to the grape arbor and sat across the table from Joyce.

Joyce accepted her cup. "So, what happened to all the Knights' horses?"

"Oh, the horses." Sister Agnes settled in comfortably. "We sent a message to the monastery of the Knights, and a few weeks later several novices came to collect the horses and to hear the tale."

"Were they angry?"

"Not in the least, thank God. They seemed far more relieved that Glory was defeated. They said a few prayers next to the graves and left." She smiled tightly. "Well, they left after I forbade them to salt the earth where Glory is buried and other similar things. She's not going anywhere, there's no reason not to leave her in peace."

"So it's been quiet otherwise?"

The nun nodded. "A typical summer. A few more visitors than normal, but no problems. We always get a few wanderers stopping by who are exploring the roads and find their way here."

Joyce glanced at the chapel. "What do they make of Saint Eugene?"

"If they notice, they never say anything. Savlin and the others stay out of sight, and the visitors have a nice tour and leave. The rangers come through occasionally, but no one bothers us." She smiled and sipped her tea. "So, tell me how everyone is."

Joyce told her about the gallery, Buffy and Dawn in summer school, Tara getting back to perfect health, and Willow busily studying. The easy words slowed when she reached Xander and Anya. She told of how worried people were about Xander and how he pulled away when his friends tried to find out how he was.

"They're pushing him too hard," she said. "I told Buffy he needs room and time, but she's too worried about him to leave it be."

Sister Agnes nodded. "She sees a challenge and must defeat it. They want everything to go back to normal, but some things never can. Are he and Anya still . . ."

"I think so. I didn't ask. Too many people keep asking him things."

"Poor boy." Sister Agnes stared at her tea cup for several moments. "What of Mr. Giles?"

"Well . . . I think he's still around. Buffy hasn't said anything either way. I haven't seen him, and I don't know if any of the others have. I know Buffy misses him. She'll start to say his name, then change the subject." Joyce shook her head. "They all do."

They sat in silence, sipping their tea.

---

Xander retrieved his tools from the car and, followed by his faithful shadow, Baynar, went through the convent repairing and building. Sister Teresa's kitchen work table had its wobbly legs tightened; Sister Mary got some new shelves for her herbs. Sister Dymphna bashfully asked him to take a look at the mangers in the stable, and he found some scrap wood in a corner to incorporate into the renovations.

It was good, silent work. Baynar quickly learned the English for "nail" and "hammer" and "saw" and such, and the only thing heard for hours was the occasional request for a tool and the sound of woodwork. When Xander paused for a drink of water, though, he heard whispers and quiet giggles just outside the stable. He peeked outside; three young women in nuns' habits squeaked guiltily.

"Uh, hi," he said.

The three looked at each other nervously, then the shorter one smiled. "Hello."

"Have we met?"

They all shook their heads. The taller one took a nervous breath. "We're novices. We've only been here a few weeks. I'm Sister Yvonne."

He couldn't help smiling. "I'm Xander."

The medium one was just gathering her courage to speak when a throat was cleared behind them. Sister Dymphna stood there, trying to look stern. "Sister Teresa is looking for help in the kitchen, sisters."

The three novices immediately tucked their hands into their sleeves, nodded demurely, and headed serenely back towards the gate. When they rounded the corner, though, there was the sound of more giggles.

Sister Dymphna sighed. "They're very young, and new to their vocation. But they're good girls. I remember being young." She glanced at Xander, then looked away, blushing just a little.

Xander looked at her curiously, then remembered that, in the heat of an August afternoon of hard work, he'd taken his shirt off hours ago. You weren't supposed to wander around nuns half-dressed. He scurried into the stable to find his shirt.

Sister Dymphna looked over her nearly-rebuilt stalls. "This looks lovely, Xander, thank you. But you don't have to do it all today. It's almost time for Vespers and supper." She looked pointedly at Baynar, who was burrowed into the straw. "And I know someone's mother expects him to be clean for supper." Baynar did his best innocent look.

"Come on, dude, there's no fighting it," Xander laughed. "They always make us clean up for supper." He put his tools into a neat pile for later, then held his hand out to Baynar. "Let's go in before your mom comes looking for us."

Baynar pouted, then leaped out to grab Xander's hand.

Both Joyce and Xander joined the community for Vespers. The sun wouldn't set for several hours yet, but the times of prayers had been standardized generations before to avoid bunching up all the observances at one end of the day or the other. Baynar tried to sneak away from his mother when he saw Xander in the chapel, but Savlin told him firmly to sit still. Xander gave him the best stern look he could manage without laughing until Baynar slouched in defeat and sat quietly.

Supper was a different matter, and Savlin let her son wiggle in next to his human friend to continue chattering in English/Minoto. Xander felt momentarily disoriented when he saw that Joyce's indulgent smile was nearly identical to Savlin's. The Mom thing transcended species, obviously. Fortunately he was distracted from contemplating his own parents by the arrival of a peach cobbler Sister Teresa had put together from the food gifts Joyce had brought.

The three novices sat at the end of the table nearest Sister Agnes. She kept a close but genial eye on them, giving them pointed looks whenever their whispering became a bit too intense. Sister Teresa made sure everyone had seconds, though Joyce tried to demur at more peach cobbler.

"You are too thin," Sister Teresa said firmly. "You've been ill, you need to feed yourself up so you can get well."

Xander failed to muffle his snicker, and Joyce turned to glare at him. She finally sighed, though not too hard. "All right, I'll have more of the cobbler."

"Good for you. And you'll sleep well in the guestroom tonight, and I'll give you a big breakfast tomorrow."

Sister Teresa bustled away, and Joyce sighed more sincerely. "I'm going to go home having gained five pounds." She glanced at Xander.

"I didn't say anything," he protested. "I know far, far better than to make any kind of comment in a conversation involving women and weight. Not me, no, sir."

After supper, Xander went back to the stable, followed by Baynar. They worked until Sister Dymphna brought the cows and the plowhorse in from the meadow.

"And that will be enough for tonight, gentlemen," she said firmly. "Zorrababel, Hepzibah and Mehitabel need their sleep."

Out of the corner of his eye, Xander saw Baynar yawning. "Looks like someone else does, too."

"And so do you," Sister Dymphna said. "You drove all that way and you've worked all afternoon. You must be ready to drop."

He shrugged. "If I work hard, then I sleep well. Otherwise I just toss and turn. I'll be fine. Do you need any help with the animals?"

"Not at all. This is my favorite time of the day, when I settle them for the night. You two go on to bed now."

Baynar tried to distract Xander with something interesting further down the road from the convent, but this time Xander was firm. The little demon made loud protests, which immediately stopped when they met Savlin coming out of the dormitory.

"Here he is," Xander said, "safe and sound and fighting tooth and nail against going to bed."

Savlin nodded. "It is the same every night. But he will cooperate soon enough."

Baynar's face screwed up as he fought another yawn, which escaped despite his best efforts. Savlin picked him up and cuddled him against her shoulder. "Say good-night to Xander, little one. You will see him in the morning." Baynar tried to protest, but yet another yawn interrupted him, and he rested his head tiredly on his mother's shoulder before he caught himself.

Xander grinned. "Good night, Baynar. See you in the morning."

Baynar said something sleepy. Savlin smiled. "Good night, Xander."

He watched the two of them go back into the dormitory. For the first time all day, there was silence around him. He almost started towards the dormitory in search of company, but unlike the silence of his apartment in Sunnydale, this silence held a subnote of peace, despite what had happened here just a few months ago.

He listened to the birds in the trees and the cicadas in the grass. The sun was warm on his head, and he could smell the dry dust--and the chickens. Finally he let his mind relax a little and tried not to flinch as the echos of screams and gunshots returned to the corners of the courtyard around him.

Now he was glad he'd come with Joyce. Tara spoke of the great wheel of life and death, light and dark. Now he had different memories he could lay over those of that dark, bloody night.

He started towards the dormitory to ask when a young man could get a thorough wash without running the risk of shocking anyone, but stopped after a couple of steps. No one was around, no one was watching him with caring, concerned eyes. No expectations or worries haunted him with accusations that he wasn't dealing with matters the way that he should. There was something he needed to do before he could honestly think he was on his way to settling things. Glancing around once more to make sure he was unobserved, he walked slowly out the front gates, around the walls, and up the slope to the olive grove and the memories sleeping there.

The birds paid him no mind as he walked up the hill. Some sort of snake twisted away into the taller grass; a rabbit leaped out of hiding and bounded into the rocks. Cicadas and other buzzing things made the day seem much noisier than a summer evening in town.

Both mass graves had grown over with grasses and weeds. Nature made no distinction between hellgod and holy warriors.

The fence of swords around the Knights' grave was undisturbed. Sister Mary had told Xander about the visit of the Knights earlier, and she'd said they'd debated another marker. In the end, they left it as it was. They had asked the sisters to thank whomever had set up the swords, calling it the most fitting memorial to those who had fallen in battle with their ages-old foe.

Xander settled down at the foot of the biggest olive tree and studied the graves. The nuns had shown no fear at having a hellgod buried in their graveyard. Apparently the dead didn't get up and stroll around so much in their world.

He wished he could stay here. Quiet, peaceful, and the work he did was appreciated. But there was that whole male thing and not fitting in too well in a convent. Maybe Sister Agnes knew of a nice monastery somewhere, hopefully one that didn't require a vow of silence. Someplace far in the country, where the dark things couldn't find you and lurk outside your window.

Most mornings he found at least one cigarette butt on his balcony. He tried to ignore it, tried not to pick them up in the mornings even though he hated trash on the floor, tried not to make a note in the evening that the balcony was still clean. Tried his very damnedest not to show he was awake when he smelled cigarette smoke in the middle of the night. The voice he sometimes heard, that whispered "Invite me in," existed only in nightmares.

Except if he pretended that voice was a dream, he was afraid that one night he was going to dream himself answering, "Come in."

And that way lay madness.

The man in the white hat did not stand shoulder to shoulder with the villain. There were sides, and he'd chosen his when the tiny blonde girl had turned over the rocks and showed the nasty things underneath. If he could face off against his oldest friend with every willingness to shove a stake in his heart, then he could surely keep his back turned to a joyful killer who had always shown such delight in causing him pain.

He'd never been tempted by Jesse's invitation to join the dark side, he'd never thought for even a moment that a life of evil at his best friend's side might not be all bad. He had not found one ounce of comfort in having Spike backing him up that long night, he had not been reassured that the two of them were functioning on the same wavelength of necessity and practicality.

He had not become much better at lying to himself.

Spike was stalking him. He knew that. What really worried him, though, was the number of times he felt like catching the vampire at it, just for a chance to talk to someone who understood what had happened that night, who wasn't trying to explain to him how he really felt about all of it, who wasn't trying to get him to fucking share. Whatever Spike was after, Xander was fairly sure it wasn't something Oprah would be advocating on TV.

Why the hell was the vampire after him, anyway? Buffy was supposed to be Spike's obsession. If it was a matter of Spike finally following through on the "I live for the day I kill you" thing, Xander would have expected something a whole lot more straightforward than an Angelus-style stalk-and-scare.

Except there wasn't much scare involved, was there. Just Spike being there, nearby. Like he was waiting for something.

On the far side of the graveyard, a pair of deer picked their way down from the rocky slope, nibbling on bushes. Xander watched them, wondering how close they'd come to him if he sat perfectly still. But the wind shifted, and the animals' heads came up at the scent of human, then they bounced away at speed.

Sighing, Xander checked the position of the sun. Getting close to dark. He was starting to feel the effects of the drive and the long afternoon of work. He might just sleep without the dreams tonight. He'd been putting in as much overtime as he could at work, so he'd be exhausted enough for silent dreams. It even sometimes worked. He got to his feet and headed down to the convent, hoping they'd assigned him a room other than the one Anya had chosen before. Maybe he'd sleep better without waiting for the scent of cigarette smoke to come drifting in through his windows.

***

Buffy waited till she got a phone call from Dawn at Janice's house--and she listened to the background sounds to make sure of where Dawn was--then she grabbed a quick snack and headed out into the night. There had been no answer at Willow's room, so she hit the patrol alone.

A sweep of the college showed nothing nasty lurking in the usual places. Maybe the vampires were all waiting for classes to start too.

She remembered going over the class lists for the fall semester, trying to decide what to take--and whether trying to decide on a major was foolishness for a Slayer. Her mother had been a big help, encouraging her to think of the future. Buffy had stopped mentioning the realities of a Slayer's life, though, when she saw her mother's mouth tighten up in that painful way.

Weirdly enough, Dawn was the easiest one to talk to about fate and destiny and all that. She was still getting used to being barely a year old in real time while still packing a lifetime's worth of memories in her head. Every now and then Dawn would go up to people she was supposed to know, and she'd check to see what memories the monks' magic had given them. So far the magic was holding good. They'd made sure to get copies of all her school transcripts and medical records, though, just in case things started to fracture.

Nothing moving in Restfield; a couple of slime trails that went nowhere in Peaceful Acres. Over in Southside Memorial Gardens, though, she got the feeling again of being watched. She concentrated for several seconds, but it wasn't a vampire, whatever was out there. So at least it wasn't Spike doing his bizarre love from afar routine. Or Giles keeping an eye on her again. A few weeks after getting back from the convent, Buffy had been following the trail of some migrating Red Hats. There'd been a couple of skirmishes, then one knock down drag-out before they decided Sunnydale was no place to put down roots. More than once Buffy had seen a familiar figure in the shadows and bad guys with more damage than she remembered inflicting.

He'd said he still considered himself part of her clean-up crew. She knew she was supposed to be outraged and disgusted. And thinking about it made her head and stomach hurt.

She smelled blood from a nearby grove. When she got there, she found human blood on the ground, vampire dust in the grass, and a crossbow bolt hanging crookedly from a branch halfway up a tree. Dusted vamp, hurt human, no body lying around. Nobody she knew was doing freelance Slayer work. She listened again, but there was only the breeze in the leaves.

This was getting annoying. Time to get the inside information on any new players in town.

Willie handed Buffy a non-alcoholic, non-demonic strawberry daiquiri. He glanced nervously at the rest of the barroom, then went back to wiping glasses. "So, what are you looking for tonight, Slayer?"

"Hey, I could just be stopping by for a drink and a visit." She pouted at his disbelieving look. "It could happen!"

"Yeah, sure, kid." He looked at the crowd again. "At least none of the heavy hitters are in tonight. Nobody here wants to have any trouble with the Slayer."

Buffy checked the room in the mirror. Vampires wouldn't show up, of course, but she had those handy Slayer senses for them. All she saw were furtive, quiet demons, some of whom were giving her dirty looks, some of whom just looked scared.

"I'm not looking for trouble, honest. I'm just--" She slumped. "I'm the bogeyman. People find out who I am and they're afraid."

Willie pulled up a stool on the other side of the bar. "Well, you are the Slayer, kid. Not likely to be on the side of the demons."

"I'm the Vampire Slayer. Slayer of creatures who want to munch humans. That's a good thing, right?"

He nodded. "I'm for not getting munched."

"I met some Minoto demons a few months ago, they were nice. I know there are others like that. But I never get to meet the nice demons."

"This is the Hellmouth, kid. Definitely the bad side of demon town. In LA and such, now, you get the good places, nightclubs and all that, where you don't have to worry about brawls."

She grinned at Willie's wistful look. "Oh, you'd miss it."

"Probably."

"But it does sound nice."

"They don't send Slayers to places like that, though," Willie went on. "You're the cops, and cops only go where there's trouble. But the thing with cops, they deal with troublemakers all the time, and pretty soon that's all they see, troublemakers. You see a demon, you expect him to be up to something, and sometimes he's just out for a latte."

Buffy blinked. "Demons like lattes?"

"Lattes?" said a new voice behind her. "Did you get the cappuccino machine fixed, Willie?"

"Sorry, Clem, still down," Willie said.

Buffy turned and stared at the grinning, floppy-eared, floppy-skinned, floppy--well, floppy person. He held out a hand, still grinning.

"Hi, I'm Clem."

She shook his hand carefully. "Hi. I'm Buffy."

Clem hopped onto a stool. "We don't get a lot of humans in here. I just wanted to come up and say Hi."

"How did you know I'm human?"

He nodded at the mirror. "Reflection, so you're not a vampire. Body temperature is human normal. But if you're not human, that's cool, too."

Willie put a glass of something in front of Clem. "Here ya go. When you expecting the guys in for the game?"

"They should start rolling in any time now."

Willie looked apologetically at Buffy. "Unless you do want some excitement, kid, you might want to be somewhere else when the poker players show up. None of 'em much like Slayers."

Buffy glared at the barkeep as Clem gasped. She'd kind of enjoyed her anonymity.

"You're the Slayer?" Clem whispered. "But you're tiny! The Slayer's this gigantic, super-powered, vamp slaying machine."

She shrugged uncomfortably. "Nope, sorry. It's me."

Clem grinned. "This is so neat! Me, chatting with the Slayer. The guys will plotz."

Buffy blinked. "You're not--scared?"

"Nah, you've got no reason to come after me, I'm not up to anything."

"Except you're a demon."

"So?" He lost some of his mellow look. "Or do the Slayers go after anything that's not human?"

She shrugged. "If they do, I wasn't told. I'm fine."

"Well, if you're fine, I'm fine." He leaned closer. "But Willie's right, some of the guys, not as civilized as some. They wouldn't understand."

"Gotcha. Willie, before I go, is there anybody in town doing the rogue demon hunter bit? Somebody's out there dusting vampires that isn't me."

Willie shrugged. "I ain't heard of nobody."

"Oh, I have!" Clem said. "There's a bunch of guys wandering around with crossbows and guns. They don't seem to like much of anybody." He shivered, which did amazing things to various bits of him. "Don't want to deal with a bunch like that again."

Buffy wanted to ask for more information, but Willie was starting to look truly nervous. For a moment she was tempted to see what these tough guy poker players were like, but she didn't want to get into a brawl just now.

She nodded reassuringly to Willie. "I'll be heading out then, see what's out there." She headed for the door.

Willie nodded. "See ya later, kid. Be careful!"

Clem waved. "Don't be a stranger!"

She waved back.

Demons as normal people. After meeting the Minoto at the convent, that shouldn't be such a surprise. Why hadn't she been told about the good demons? Was it some policy of the Council, that there weren't any good demons? Or had it been simply that there wasn't time, between atrocities being committed by the bad demons. And the bad humans. She didn't have time now to go through the books, learn for herself which ones were the ones to worry about and which ones were just floppy guys who liked lattes.

What did demons do for fun that didn't involve brawling and trying to bring about the end of the world? Poker, apparently. She tried to imagine a place like the Bronze, but with a demon clientele. Did they have bands? D.J.s? Did demons dance?

She had a sudden image of Clem on the dance floor and couldn't decide between laughter and horror.

Angel would know about the demonic night life of Los Angeles. Cordelia had mentioned a karaoke bar they all hung out in that was run by a demon who was a friend of theirs. The world was a lot more complicated than it used to be. The First Slayer, with her fire and bones, probably never had to deal with demons who ran nightclubs and liked lattes.

Buffy stopped walking. So why hadn't anyone told her how to deal with them? Was she the only one who had noticed?

The wind shifted, and she smelled human blood again. Footsteps, too, that were trying to be sneaky.

She was near some old buildings, not far from Spike's old factory. The footsteps were following her, so she led them towards the shadows. She Slayer-crept her way around a corner and into a convenient shadowy alcove. By the footsteps, it was four good-sized people, fairly spread out.

The first man came around the corner and paused when he realized his quarry was out of sight. He wasn't Initiative, unless the soldiers had traded in their camo for plain, heavy cloth pants and leather jackets. The crossbow he held was a sleek black metal and plastic number. So was the gun in the holster on his hip.

Two more men came into view, also with guns and crossbows, but not held ready to use. One of them had a bandaged arm with blood showing through. The other wore a headset, and he gestured to the first one to lower his crossbow. The first man looked around nervously but obeyed.

The man in the headset muttered something into the microphone that Buffy didn't quite hear, but caught something that sounded like "Slayer". Eyes narrowed, she stepped out of hiding. They jumped when they realized she was behind them. The first one started to bring his crossbow up.

"Oh, don't you dare," she snapped. "Now, are you going to tell me who you are and what you're up to, or do I get to beat it out of you?"

"That won't be necessary, Miss Summers."

The fourth set of footsteps. Buffy whirled.

Quentin Travers of the Watchers Council leaned on a walking stick and regarded her with something approaching pleasure.

"What is the Council doing back in my town?" Buffy demanded. She looked over her shoulder at the three men with crossbows. "Is this another one of your commando squads? Like the one that tried to come after Faith?"

Travers sighed. "Yes, in a way, and no. We don't call them commandos, and these gentlemen are a bit more prudent than those with whom you had trouble in Los Angeles. You did get a formal apology for that, didn't you?"

She thought a moment. "Um . . . no. Mr. Travers, what are you doing here? Glory's settled, it's summertime, traditional quiet time in the realms of evil." She looked back again. "Why are you guys hunting vampires on your own? Is this another one of your stupid tests?"

"No, not in the least," Travers said quickly. "I do admit, we have been observing you, watching you in the field." He smiled again. "You are quite remarkable, Miss Summers. Oh, and profound congratulations on the Glory matter."

Buffy shrugged uncomfortably. "I had a lot of help."

"Yes, so I understand." Some of the pleasure faded out of Travers' voice. "We've heard various stories of the fight, terribly third and fourth hand. I'd be very grateful if we could hear it from you. And the others."

Buffy looked at the three armed men Travers had brought with him, wondering if there were any more Council goons wandering around, looking for things. Looking for stories. "Sure, the others. I don't know how much they'll want to talk about it, it was pretty hairy. But I can ask them."

"As I said, I'd be grateful." Travers stared at the ground, then visibly braced himself. "There is another major reason we're here. As I said, we've heard stories. Miss Summers, where is Rupert Giles?"

***

Willow lay in bed next to Tara, tracing her eyebrows and nose and lips. "You are so beautiful," she whispered. "So beautiful."

Tara's lips smiled under Willow's fingers. "So are you."

"You're more beautiful."

"No, I'm not."

Willow kissed her. "Yes, you are. So there."

Tara lowered her eyes, but she was smiling.

With a contented sigh, Willow snuggled in close. "I love you so very much."

"I love you more." Tara kissed her to stop the protest. "So there." Willow laughed and let it go.

They lay together in happy silence, watching the candles flicker lower. Miss Kitty hopped onto the bed and found her favorite spot in the curve behind Tara's knees. Tara's blinks finally became nearly indistinguishable from someone fighting sleep.

"Go to sleep, sweetie," Willow whispered. "I love watching you sleep."

"Voyeur," Tara murmured.

"Darn tootin'." Willow lightly ran her finger tips along Tara's forehead and cheekbones. "Go to sleep." Tara's eyelids slid closed and her breathing deepened. Willow continued to run her fingers along Tara's face. "Sweet dreams, my sweet. Deep sleep and sweet dreams." She kissed her lover's forehead and slipped carefully out of bed.

She stood a moment, watching Tara sleep. She still wasn't completely over the terror from Glory's theft of Tara's mind, the feeling of helplessness when she didn't think she'd ever have her beloved back. She wished she'd watched more of the fight that had taken Glory down, just for the satisfaction.

There were still so many bad things out there, still so many ways your loved ones could get hurt. She had to learn every way she could to protect them. Nothing was ever going to hurt her family again.

She dressed quickly, gathered some things, and left as quietly as she could. The wards of protection on the door got an extra bit of energy. As tough as those wards were now, the whole building could catch fire and Tara would sleep peacefully on in a room completely untouched.

Not many people were still around in the break between summer school and fall semester. No one noticed Willow leaving the building--not that there was anything to notice, just a girl heading out with a knapsack over one shoulder. She strolled off casually, heading for the east side of town.

She took a shortcut through the smallest and oldest of Sunnydale's myriad cemeteries, filled with really neat crypts and Spike's former home. She wasn't far from the Du Lac crypt when she heard the sound of metal on stone.

"Oh, bother," she sighed, and changed directions.

When she was closer she heard voices. "Why do we have to be the ones breaking into crypts?" said a half-familiar voice.

"Because we lost the lightning round of Next Generation trivia," answered a completely unfamiliar voice.

"I'm still not sure he's right about that mistranslation of the Klingon subtitles."

Another clink of metal against stone. "Well, when there's a discrepancy between dialogue and subtitles, canon always follows the dialogue. That's just a given."

"I'm not arguing that, but the Klingon lexicon has gone through some changes since the dictionary was published. It's out of date, I don't care if it's the only authorized edition. 'Undiscovered Country' alone introduced new vocabulary that isn't adequately declined in the published sources."

"But Rule 32 says 'The Klingon Dictionary is the final arbiter of translation debates in trivia contests.' We all voted on that."

"Yeah, but that was when they were going to update the dictionary."

Willow peeked through the bushes at the two arguing young men. Yep, that was Jonathan, but who was the blond guy? And why were they using crowbars on the lock on the Du Lac crypt, which had been installed and magically reinforced by Giles himself years ago?

She debated several approaches, then decided on a Buffy-esque confrontation. She stepped around the bush. "Hi, guys. Whatcha doing?"

The resulting screams of shock were very gratifying.

Jonathan clutched his chest. "Wil--Wil--Willow."

"Hi, Jonathan." She looked at the other person. "Hi, have we met?"

The blond young man blinked, hugging his crowbar to him. "We were at school together. I'm Andrew."

Willow thought a moment, then nodded. "Tucker's brother."

Andrew beamed. "You remember me?"

She shrugged a little. "I think I saw you getting beaten up in the hallway one day."

"Oh, well, yeah, that happened a lot."

She looked at Jonathan. "So what brings you two out in the middle of the night? To the cemetery? With crowbars?"

Jonathan and Andrew stared at each other, then at their crowbars, then back at Willow.

"Um . . ." Andrew started.

"Live action role playing," Jonathan said.

Willow blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah, like Dungeons & Dragons."

"I know what a LARP is." She looked them over doubtfully. "So what are your characters?"

Andrew perked up. "We're brave adventurers in a modern-day setting, in a world populated by dark and dangerous creatures, where mystic powers and arcane rituals are the keys to power beyond understanding."

Willow blinked again. "You said that all in one breath." He shrugged in bashful pride. "Dark and dangerous . . ." She glanced out into the shadowy cemetery, considered the contents of the bag she was carrying, and decided not to explore any further the boundary between role-playing and the real world. "So what are you doing here?"

Jonathan fielded this one. "There's an artifact inside we're supposed to get."

"I don't think you're supposed to do any actual breaking and entering in LARPs. Besides, there's nothing interesting in the Du Lac crypt--except what's left of the Du Lacs, of course."

"There isn't?" Jonathan frowned. "How do you know?"

"Um, well . . ." Wait a minute, she wasn't the one who had just been caught committing desecration. "It's something Buffy dealt with a few years ago. We closed it up afterwards, there's nothing interesting there, now." She smiled cheerfully.

Jonathan and Andrew looked at each other uneasily. "The, um, game master said we had to check the place out," Jonathan said.

"Well, then you can tell him you ran into a wandering witch with local knowledge who said not to bother." She continued smiling in her best "I'm only here to help" manner.

Andrew fidgeted with his crowbar. "Our gamemaster was really sure something interesting is in here."

Willow was starting to get curious about this gamemaster. "What's supposed to be in there?"

Jonathan smacked Andrew's arm, making Andrew wince. "If you say nothing's in there, then you're probably right. You're certainly one with the local knowledge, Willow. Come on, Andrew, we've got other places to check tonight." He began tugging on Andrew's arm. "Good night, Willow, be careful out here."

"Stop pulling!" Andrew protested, but he followed Jonathan into the shadows.

Willow debated following them, but she had an appointment she was already nearly late for.

On the edge of the failed Sunrise Grove development on the east side of town, Willow paused to carefully speak a chant. She then took a deep breath and paid as much attention to her surroundings as it was witchily possible to do.

She did not take the main street down towards the recreation center. One of the crumbling paved roads circled through the half-built houses to a point on the other side of the vampires' lair. Other creatures had moved into the area, those that didn't mind the proximity of the undead. None of them would be pleased to find a human about, and Willow walked very carefully.

Loud punk music and bright light came from the open garage doors on the south side of the rec center. The red BMW convertible was there, along with three big motorcycles. The center of attention, though, was an old black car with the hood up. Two figures were bent over either fender, heads buried in the engine. Both were wearing black jeans, and Willow identified the one on the right as Spike, from the Doc Martins on the feet. She didn't know who the other one was, wearing running shoes. She crept carefully to the edge of the light.

Spike straightened from the engine compartment and reached for his cigarettes. "Evenin', Red," he called.

The other vampire pulled up and stared into the night, startled. She recognized Sammy, who seemed to hang out with Spike a lot. He didn't see Willow until she stepped into view.

"Darn it, Spike, how did you know I was there?"

"Smelled you." He smirked at her over his lit match. "The wind shifted a couple of minutes ago, and I smelled the blonde witch. Left her with pleasant dreams, I trust."

Willow tried to answer, but she was blushing too hard.

"If it's any comfort," Spike went on, "I didn't know you were there till then. You're getting good with that misdirection spell."

Willow beamed.

"But you still need to work on shielding the magic itself," said a new voice. She squeaked and turned. Giles stood right behind her, smiling.

"How did you--" She blew air out in frustration. "Darn it."

Giles put an arm around her shoulder and led her into the garage. "I was watching for you, and I felt the magic when you invoked the spell when you got here. But that was much smoother tonight, no sudden flash of power. I may not have noticed if I wasn't looking for it." He cleared his throat. "The scent matter, though, is relevant." He glared at Spike. "Though someone without specific knowledge may not have realized the significance."

Spike just smiled. "Other than knowing it smells good." Sammy snickered, then smothered it at Giles' pointed look.

"We can," Giles continued, "modify that misdirection spell to cloak all traces of your presence."

Willow sighed. "Every time I think I have something down, somebody pokes a hole in it."

"Nature of the beast, I'm afraid. Magic is more art than science. Come along, we can go over your exercises."

As Willow followed, she glanced at the black car. "Oh, is this the famous De Soto? Or did you get a replacement?"

Spike patted the fender fondly. "Nope, this is the one. I tracked her down and got her back."

"I bet it's a gas hog."

He grinned at her. "She may not be fuel efficient, but she's got it where it counts. I'll give you a ride someday, if you want."

Willow saw Giles' glare from the corner of her eye, but she was used to innuendo from Spike. "Is it a stick shift? I don't like stick shifts, they just don't drive as smooth as automatics."

Sammy let out a guffaw before he could stop himself, then focused his attention on the engine compartment of the De Soto. Spike winked at Willow, who smiled back before following Giles.

"Did you have any trouble getting away?" Giles asked.

"None at all, once Tara went to sleep. Everybody's busy. Buffy's on patrol, and Xander's off with Joyce. They're on a road trip to the Convent of St. Eugene."

Spike turned back again. "Where's Joyce?"

"Road trip to the convent. She's been gathering donations, and she drafted Xander to drive her up there. I guess he and Anya didn't have anything set up this weekend. They'll be back tomorrow."

"Who's looking after Dawn?"

"She's at a sleep over."

Spike frowned. "And Buffy's out patrolling alone."

"She's a big Slayer, Spike," Giles said. "I'm sure she's fine."

Willow glanced at Giles. He sounded just like himself, warning Spike away from Buffy, with just a little growl in the sub-harmonics. But Spike looked oddly confused at he nodded at Giles' words, then turned back to the car. Giles tugged lightly on her arm, and she followed him into the rest of the building.

Willow wasn't sure how many vampires lived at Sunrise Grove. There always seemed to be new faces but not the same ones. When she had begun to come to Giles for magic lessons at the beginning of the summer, he'd made a point of introducing her to the four others living there at the time. Warning them off, she realized. New faces began to appear at the rec center, and she got used to covert stares and badly disguised hostility.

A month ago, when she was still practicing the misdirection spell, one of the new fledges ambushed her on the way in, snarling that humans were food, not pets. Giles caught the panic flare of her instinctive reaction, but when he got there all that was left was the fading stench of burning vampire and a witch shaking with the reaction of pulling a fireball out of nothing. He hugged her in relief, but that night's lesson had been short. Spike walked her home, muttering to himself that he hoped Ripper didn't dust the lot of them as a lesson. Two more new vampires had been missing the next the next time she went there, and the others kept their distance.

Willow took a deep, appreciative breath when she entered Giles' workroom. There were always interesting smells there, old books, exotic spices. Granted, some of the smells were interesting but less pleasant, like blood and other organic things.

She checked his desk for anything new he might be working on. A gnarled hand and arm lay in the middle of some wrapping paper and string.

"What's that?" she asked.

Giles went over and picked the piece up carefully. "The hand and arm of a lesser Tyrenian imp from Madagascar."

"Oh." She looked at it for a couple of seconds. "Why?"

He chuckled and gave in. "For some reason, the hands of the lesser imp are the second favorite choice in the creation of Hands of Glory. I was curious as to why."

"What's the first choice?"

He gave her one of those "your worldview will not be enhanced by this answer" looks. "Human."

"Oh. I should have guessed. I wonder why. Humans aren't inherently magical, unless they have the knack for magic."

"I think it's a matter of ease of availability. To be honest, a great many Hands of Glory were constructed by people who had no idea of the true nature of things but who thought that the blasphemous aspects of dismembering a corpse would provide the extra power. The hands of criminals, particularly murderers, were quite sought after."

Willow grimaced. "Do they work?"

"Inasmuch as the intent of the item is evil and therefore leads the focus of the magician into darker areas, then it works. If the hand is prepared with the proper rituals, it can be an authentic artifact, but most mages don't bother."

"What are the proper rituals?"

Giles studied her for a long moment. "Are you needing an artifact of evil for something?"

"Oh, gosh, no! No evil artifacts, not at all. I was just wondering."

"We'll leave it to academia, then." He put the arm back on the desk. "Now, then." He considered her for a moment, his hands in his trouser pockets, then, with vampiric speed, he tossed a small marble at her.

It bounced off the point of Willow's chin. "Ow!" She gave him a look of betrayal and rubbed the budding red spot.

Her look was more than matched with a perturbed look of Giles' own. "Willow, what were you supposed to be practicing?" he asked sternly.

She managed not to go "eep!" "Blocking things, stopping them and holding them. And I did! I have! Last night I caught Buffy's frappachino and held it in midair for her. I went to the batting cages a few days ago and practiced with the pitching machine."

He glanced pointedly at the marble, lying in the corner.

"I wasn't expecting that--and don't give me that look, I know the bad guys don't give warning." She began to wonder if even the resolve face would be able to stand up to the stern vampire look.

He gave her a very old-fashioned "Giles is disappointed" sigh. "One of these days it might not be a marble. I'm glad you feel safe enough to relax here, but you shouldn't drop all your defenses. Not everyone here is your friend. All right?"

Willow nodded quickly. Giles went over to pick up the marble--and he flicked it towards her while still crouched. The marble stopped dead six inches in front of Willow's face, and she smiled serenely at him.

"Very good," he laughed. "Now we'll try it in multiples."

For the next hour, Willow practiced catching balls. Giles tossed them at her in varying numbers, then she had to catch them and hold them as he threw more at her. The weight ranged from ping-pong balls to large ball bearings, and she was sweating at the end of it.

Giles picked up a baseball and considered, then shook his head. "Enough. Put them all in the box over there, and we're done."

Willow took a deep breath and very carefully moved the mass of suspended balls to the box on Giles' desk. The first time she'd tried this, she'd dropped everything on the desktop. There were still dents. This time only the ping-pong ball tried to escape, and she magically nudged it back into the box.

"Well done, Willow." Giles patted her shoulder. "Very well done. Here, sit down."

She dropped gratefully into a chair at the table where Giles' electric kettle lived. The water was just coming to a boil, and her very own dark-blue-with-gold-stars-and-moons mug was waiting. She watched him pour the water into