*

"But that makes no sense," Giles explained to the angry  Yorkshire
growl that was all he knew of the Watcher in  Boston.

"Yer can take it up w'it Council, then," the man said, coldly.   "I'll
not gae yer Slayer, w'idout their say."

"Bloody..." Giles began, but the phone was already dead and  buzzing in
his hand.

"I don't believe this."  Giles dully placed the phone back in  it's
cradle and took his glasses off.  Rubbed his eyes.  Not so  much tired
as buzzing with a kind of insane fatigue.  Days  since he'd slept. /oh
yes a dream come true, that / And there  had been so much to do, so much
to tend to -- making pretty  lies for the police, making sure Kendra's
body --

-- brief fishhook catch of grief always at the  flower/smile/laughter
memory her name evoked--

Kendra's body was returned home for Sam Zabuto to lay to  rest.

Xander.

Giles opened his eyes quickly at the sudden pained realization  that
Xander wasn't on the couch where he was supposed to  be. Damn. He'd been
so wrapped up in this -- well, this small  matter of life and death that
the Council seemed to have  decided was a lark...

Glad in a way that he was far too weary to be more than  theoretically
angry about that, but he was already up on his  feet and checking.  The
front door still locked, okay.   Bathroom, empty.  Okay.  Only a cursory
glance in every  other room because really Xander only tended to wander
in very small circles.

Found him where he'd expected to, in Kendra's room, that  still smelled
faintly of girl and not at all of death.  Xander  simply standing in the
middle of the room, dressed and armed.   Impossibly tall.

Tempted to just leave him there, let him grieve but that  would only
lead to the same argument they had every time  Giles left him alone long
enough to form the thought and he  didn't have either the time or energy
right now.

"It's too early to patrol," he said, his voice overloud in the
stillness of the room.  Xander didn't answer, didn't seem to  register
his presence at all... although Giles saw his hand fist  and flex,
briefly.  Wondered how close Xander was to actually  hauling off and
hitting him and whether it wouldn't do them  both some good.

Let the little bitter smile that wanted birth just curl at the  corner
of his mouth because it really didn't matter, there  simply wasn't time
for any of this. Almost ready at this  point to simply give up, let
Xander go and do what damage he  could do before he got himself badly
killed because he had yet  to find Willow...

Oh and the brief flash *her* name evoked was all rage and... and
something wordless and wailing inside him at the sight of  her on her
feet in the bright, bloody sunshine and wavering --  torn between coming
to help him, god knew how, keep Xander  from diving into Kendra's blood
-- and chasing after -- Gods.

A *werewolf*.  Stupid ignorant arrogant child had thought to  bind a
*werewolf* and they hadn't seen her since.  And was it  really so cruel
to half-hope the creature had turned and  killed her quickly so she
wouldn't have to face...  Well,  *this*?

"You said I could be of use."  Hardly a voice at all anymore,  just rust
and anguish.  Something torn from a sick child's  throat.  Giles felt a
kind of shame steal the blood from his  face.  Felt pitiless and cold.
His arms ached to reach out,  offer shelter and he simply thrust his
hands in his pocket.   Made himself say what he knew to be, if not true,
then  certainly true enough.

"Not like this," he said.

"Not like this."  Saw how it shook through Xander like little  tiny
charges at all his weak spots.  Just tiny shudders but he  could see the
way the shape and structure had suddenly gone  out of him.  Still no
sound, maybe no tears, either on the face  still turned away from him
but Giles knew.  Xander would not  be attempting to go patrolling
tonight. Perhaps ever.

/and how nice to find I've perfected the skill of destroying  broken
sixteen year old boys./

And suddenly it was too much and he couldn't help it.  Found  himself
taking two long strides into the room, pulling Xander  into something
that was too fierce, too clumsy to be a hug.  A  death grip maybe.  They
were the last, the last two and  Christ he already knew what that was
like.

And Xander crumbling slowly, heavy grieving heat against him  in pieces
and parts, making some sound, some silent agonized  exhale that was all
vocal cords and no breath and when the  sobs came Giles thought he would
be ready for them but he  wasn't.  It never occurred to him that they
would be his own.

But it was much, much too late for shame, and he couldn't  have gotten
away if he'd tried. Xander was at least as strong  as he was, now. At
least. And there they were... weeping.

Yes. There was something about the word that just made it  come harder,
something that made Giles want it harder still  because this could be
his one chance to finally get it out  /Buffy's eyes were blue. Blue/ and
ludicrous to try to believe  that was it just a bloody Spring *Cleaning*
and he knew he  was babbling aloud when Xander held him tighter still.

Giles let himself stop thinking, and when something sharp  broke in
Xander's throat and he fell to his knees, Giles  followed.

Sunset found them there, for the most part. Giles rested his  back
against the narrow bed, that, to his knowledge, Xander  and Kendra had
never had a chance to share. It *did* smell  like her here, faint and
absent traces and nowhere near  hallucinatory enough. Xander was next to
him, the two of  them shoulder to shoulder and streaked with tears.

It would be too much to expect to break down anywhere near  a
handkerchief.

Giles chuckled at himself a little, and Xander looked up from  the
battered old hairbrush in his lap. There was no smile, but  then again
there was also no hint of reproach for Giles' own.  Perhaps he was
thinking about his own near fetishistic level  of worship for Kendra's
hair.

Xander had an infinite capacity to laugh at himself, of  course... and
for some reason *that* made him burn behind the  eyes again. He did his
best to pinch the tears off at the  bridge of his nose, but a few
escaped anyway.

"Damn."

"What's the matter, G-man? Already passed your sob quota?"  Half-bitter,
half-joking.

"Well, if I'm not careful..." And it was hard, so damnably  hard. "...
if I'm not careful I'll lose my British citizenship."

Xander's laugh seemed to be more for support than any  recognition of
humor, but he would accept it. Gratefully.

"Hey, pretty soon we'll make you into a sensitive American...  guy."
Xander ended on a dull note and Giles grabbed awkwardly  for his hand,
squeezed. There was no *we* left to do anything  to Giles, just the two
of them.

It was getting darker outside, but by no means more still.  Even with
nothing directly visible through the small window,  the night seemed
horribly alive.

Which, of course, was only to be expected, given what he had  seen when
he'd slipped out earlier to stock up on groceries.  Xander never
bothered to go home anymore and who knew what  the bloody hell his
family thought or believed and all of a  sudden, Giles had an image of
himself.

Blood pooling up around his heels as he plowed through to no  bloody
where at all, blind and stupid.

His mind had never bothered with particularly *graceful*  symbolism...
and so the only thing that had come to his mind as  he walked the quiet,
quiet streets of Sunnydale, as he passed  too few people, as he crossed
what should have been busy  streets was...

Empty.

Certainly not completely empty. There were still people in the  shops,
still mothers walking past with children, families in  the park and all
that. But empty, just the same. And he hadn't  even a glimmer of a clue
why, beyond the most probable  assumption that somehow, while he'd been
busily not grieving,  some bloody thing had killed off the whole town.

Giles wondered, idly, which of the old bastards back home  would be
drafting his letter of resignation for him.

He desperately needed a fag, a shot of something vile, and...  help.
That last thought came as something of a surprise. The  Council had
unanimously decided that the next Slayer would  remain precisely where
she was -- on the other side of the  country -- until some fucking
committee or another could  make a decision.

The Council, in other words, had decided to let Sunnydale --  and the
Hellmouth it sat on -- rot.

And Rupert Giles had, apparently, decided to rot right along  with it.

And he needed just a bit more than the kamikaze hopeful at  his side.

And, in the end, there was really only one person to call.

Xander followed him out into the living room, planted himself  on the
couch while Giles settled himself back by the phone.

Ethan's voice on the machine was warmer than he wanted, far  more
comfort than he could handle.

"Hallo, Ripper.  I was wondering when you'd get around to  me."

*

They were ignoring her again.

Standing over the bed, Cordelia watched as Dru's sharp teeth  made tiny
kitten bites on Spike's pale skin and her small  tongue neatly lapped up
the small drops of blood before the  wounds closed. Spike, his eyes
closed, absently stroked Dru's  hair.

Cordelia felt the nearly irresistible urge to slink on to the  bed, to
push in between them and let them, or make them, fuck  her growing
impatience into lassitude.

Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at  them, willed
for them to notice her.

Finally, without opening his eyes, Spike growled, "What's put  your
knickers in a twist this time?"

"It *smells* in here," she complained. "It's like living in a
slaughterhouse."

One eye opened and glared at her.  "Clean it up then."  He  jerked his
chin at the horde of squabbling newborns and added,   "Or make them do
it.  Can't you see we're *busy*?"

Dru murmured, "It smells nice.  Like home.  All lovely and  dark."  She
bit Spike again, a little harder, and smiled when he  yelped.

"Well, never having lived in the Dark Ages, I don't see the
attraction," Cordelia growled.  "I don't suppose the concept  of air
freshener means anything to you."

'Flowers," Dru said reflectively.  "You could bring me some  pretty
flowers.  Chrysanthemums."

Cordelia bit her lip to prevent herself from pointing out  Mums didn't
have a scent.  "I can go out?"

"Mmm."  Dru closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek over  Spike's slightly
chewed nipple.  "Yes.  For flowers."

And she fled, before she changed her mind, or let them change  it for
her.

Outside, her prettiest children behind her, Cordelia closed  her eyes
and smiled.

Finally, finally, *finally*.

She flung her arms out and spun, like she had when she was a  child, and
laughed with delight.  While her earliest human  memories were now only
faded images, she still recalled one  Fourth of July, how the adults
ignored her and her cousins  after the fireworks. And they'd run wild
through the streets,  sparklers in hand, intoxicated on the freedom and
the heavy,  wine sweet air.

While the air tonight was crisp, she could sense each of her  children
like a tiny, bright flame in her mind as they  faithfully followed her
through the dark, empty streets of  Sunnydale.

She didn't have a goal in mind, just a restless *itch* to be  out, to be
*away*.  They did something to her, Spike and  Drusilla.  They made her
quiet and placid and obedient.  And  while she was with them, it didn't
matter so much that she  knew she was none of those things.  But when
they became  absorbed in each other, when they didn't even *notice*
her...  she remembered.

The Master, filling her mouth with blood, sweet and sharp and  old and
*powerful* and she'd known she could do *anything*  and no one could
stop her.  It wasn't fair.  They took and  took until she only had a
glimmer of that feeling left  anymore.  She wanted it back.

Led by her thoughts, Cordelia found herself standing across  the street
from the school.  Her children milled around her,  drawn to the power
they could sense under the rubble, but  held back by her will.  She felt
the pull, too, but for her the  urge was to dig and scrape and unearth,
to find the Master's  body and see what was left.  To see maybe if she
*could* get  that feeling back.

She stepped forward, then shuddered at the almost palpable  miasma of
*wrong* surrounding the school.  No.  Not yet.   Not until she was
stronger.

With one last look over her shoulder, Cordelia strode away,  her pretty
children following.

*

Willow woke with whispers still tickling in her ears.    Soothing
whispers from the dark green places where her  dreams took her. Whispers
that rocked and petted and loved her  even though... and she cut the
thread off by scrunching up  her face until she couldn't hear anything
but the rush of her  own blood.

But it was too late, she was awake now and as much as she  didn't want
to, she knew.

She shifted a little stiffly in the nest of blankets and  clothes she'd
made for herself on the floor beside the Book,  blinked cautiously.  Her
eyes were swollen and flaked with  crystallized tears and she went to
brush them away.  Something stopped her.

Tickle of a whisper that wasn't even there and she knew, the  way she
knew things now, that tears /*her* tears; Tears of  Willow/ were things
to be kept.

-- for spells for anguish need tears wet the way tears drew and dried
tears burned and we will love you Willow love you --

Carefully, holding the little tear crumbs on her thumb, she
disentangled herself from the blankets.  Went to the dresser  and
fingered one handed through all the girl-stuff and kid- stuff until she
found a little vial.

Dropped the crumbs in.  Looked to the mirror, using her  thumbnail to
delicately scrape the residue from her swollen  eyes.

And at some point realized she had stopped. Was simply  looking at
this... creature in the mirror. Dirty-faced.  Blue- black circles under
sunken eyes, drawn cheeks, tanglemat of  ember-colored hair spiked with
dead leaves, dark with dust.   It made her lips curl back with horror.

*Witch!*

Oh god she *was* a witch.  A bad witch, not a good witch.   And she'd
done

-- dark shadow blink of the sound Oz made, the grey-shadowed  ripple of
his flesh, the bloody flat jelly mess of Kendra's  throat and all the
black-eyed, crimson-mouthed howling --

And it was too big, too dark.  She could hardly breathe, arms wrapped
around

-- herself in the mirror, fresh tears glistening --

-- yes Willow tears so sweet tears for binding pure tears  wet and burn
the wound --

She'd only meant...  If Giles had only... Yes *Giles*.  The way  he'd
looked, the way he'd *known*.  Like she should have  known.  But how
could she have known since no one ever  *told* her.  No spell to bind a
werewolf.  It wasn't fair.  If  he'd only told her.  If he'd only shown
her.  All that magic at  his hands and he kept it locked up like she was
still some  goofy nerdy geeky little child.

Everything there for the working but her head was so crowded now she
needed someone to help her sort it  out...

God, if he would.  The things she could do.  She *knew* it.   Felt this

-- power under her like she could take the whole world, the  whole
planet and break it down into component parts and put  it all back
together again any way she wanted to and... oh! --

And what if... oh!

She could.  She really could.

Cold shaky hope rising up too fast and she took a breath.   Made herself
be calm.  Looking at the witch face in the  mirror, finally seeing
herself there.  Willow, looking tired  and... kind of almost old, but
definitely her.  One tear  tracking slowly down the hollow of her eye.

She would take this slowly.  Do it right.  It was possible.   All things
were possible, she knew that now.  It was just a  matter of keeping
things straight.  Of putting together all  the things inside her -- and
she could already sort of see  the things she would need, the thin gold
threads, glint of  animal eyes, the heat and water-dripping, dark green
leaves...

Just... she needed Giles for this.  She would have to make  him see.
She would have to... maybe, okay, apologize.  Yeah.  She needed to do
that.

/because of the look he gave her, the look, like *horror* and  not at
the wolf, not at Kendra's body, but at *her*/

But okay, that was the shock.  She would fix it now. Set  things
straight. Because she was wrong to have gone ahead  without him, she saw
that now.

It was just that the whispers filled her head so there  was no room for
anything else, and he wasn't *there* but  okay, forget that, forgive
that.  Everything can be okay again,  if only he will help.

And she still wasn't moving because of that look. And the  voices could
whisper anything they wanted about how  beautiful she was and how the
world would love her but they  hadn't seen that look...

-- Giles eyes all black and dark over the top of Xander's  head --

and she *would* have helped, whe *would* have but Oz was  lost too, was
running. If it had been one of them they would  have done the same.

He'd have to see that.

Have to.  But maybe, yeah, maybe she wouldn't go right to  Giles.  Giles
maybe wouldn't be ready yet to listen.  But okay,  okay.  Xander would.
And yes!  Xander would -- god he'd  *need* to hear this more than
anyone.  He'd lost Kendra like she'd lost Oz.

It would be okay, and she raised the vial to her eye, let the  single
liquid tear slide in and sealed the vial up.  And, picking  up the
phone, she glanced back and saw the witch face in the  mirror grinning
at her.

And it maybe scared her a little, but the whispers soothed  and she
could see herself behind the witch's eyes and, just to  reassure
herself, she had to smile back.

*

Xander lay in a pile of blankets next to Kendra's bed, trying  to
sleep.  He felt a flicker of self-disgust at this apathy but  ruthlessly
squashed it.  So what if he wanted to sleep?  It  wasn't as if there
were many other options available to him.   And he'd grown sick of
following Giles through the house, was  *really* sick of the vague
feeling of utter panic he felt  whenever Giles was out of sight.

Nothing was going to happen.  Not yet, Giles said.  And if  something
did happen... well.  At the moment he didn't know if  he really cared.

So.  He closed his eyes and burrowed his head deeper into her  pillow,
imagined that he could feel the shape of her face.  The  voice of common
sense piped up and snidely pointed out that  Kendra hadn't been there
long enough to even leave more than  the trace smell of her perfume, let
alone a dip in the pillow.   Xander pushed that thought away too, along
with the memory  of his hysteria when he'd caught Giles trying to put
her  things in boxes.

Sleep.  He was going to sleep and when he woke up he might  even sleep
some more.

He'd almost drowsed off when the phone on the nightstand,  new and sleek
and rather cheap, clicked.  He could hear Giles  through it, talking on
the sturdy, sensible phone downstairs.   Faintly, as if Giles was deep
underwater and talking through a  very long tube.

Irritated, he rolled away and tried to ignore it, found it  impossible.
Through mostly unintelligible murmurs he caught a  few words, mostly
names.  Dierdre.  Phillip.  More clicks, the  same names again and then
very clearly, "I'm so sorry."

Xander knew the meaning of that phrase, those words, that  *tone*.
Someone was dead.  He hugged a pillow to him and  squeezed his eyelids
closed even tighter.  No one he knew,  probably.  And if it was, he
simply didn't want to know about  it.

More clicks and Giles' voice again, this time sounding abrupt  and angry
and another name.  Ethan.  The voice on the other  end drawled something
in response and laughed, a low, intimate  sound that made Xander's skin
twitch.

*That* conversation lasted longer, but both voices had gone  too quiet
for him to eavesdrop.  Lulled by the almost white  noise from the phone,
he drowsed and dreamed.

And woke slow and jolting, jerked more and more awake by the  voices
coming now from just beyond Kendra's door --

"You should've been there to teach *me*!"

And Xander was awake and in motion, hand ghosting over the  nightstand
where he'd left a crossbow, finding nothing but  finished wood and by
the time he figured it all out he realized  that it was Willow.

Just Willow.

And more of Giles' low-voiced rage, quiet and controlled.  Surreal to
hear it outside of the phone and Xander did not  want to go out there.

But he did.

Willow was more harried and rumpled... and dirty, dirtier than  he'd
ever seen her, pacing and half-glaring, half-crying. While  he watched,
a leaf fell from her hair. Giles was just sitting  down on the couch,
scrubbing one hand through his hair. The  movement seemed artificial
when taken in with the cold, cold look in his eyes. Xander knew he was
struggling to retain  control and it was just. Too. Much.

"Is this what we're here for? Hunh? Yelling at each other  while
whatever the fuck is killing this town is doing its  business? What the
hell --" Cut off by the near-slam of  Willow against his body.

"Xander! Oh, God, I was so worried when I found out you  weren't home
and your Dad... your Dad said terrible things  but that doesn't matter
now. You have to understand that I...  that I didn't know what would
happen. Oh, I'm so sorry,  Xander, but Giles never told me it wouldn't
work --"

"Xander." Giles' voice, still nothing but ice.

Xander hugged Willow close, and tried to feel more than  blank, tried to
think and...

Giles took a drink from the tumbler at his wrist, made no  expression at
all. "You do know what she's trying to tell you,  don't you?"

Willow whirled, knocking Xander back a bit. "Oh, that's right.  Tell
him.

"Tell him now what happened because you wouldn't teach me anything.
Wouldn't show me anything but... but weak little  Wiccan preservation
spells that meant nothing to the original  Wiccans themselves! Oz needed
my help and you didn't... I can  save Oz, I can fix everything --"

"You tried to bind a werewolf."

Xander watched and watched and felt something... something  huge and
cresting and *alive* as a bewitched wave test at  everything he knew as
himself and

"You never said --"

"You'd read a handful of half-translated grimoires -- I saw  the ones
you stole -- and thought you knew everything, didn't  you?"

Xander heard books rattle and thump against each other when  he hit the
bookcase and

-- red-orange sunlight blood sunlight winking on the chain  broken chain
--

he stopped. And they stopped.

And watched him.

"Willow... Willow, please tell me it isn't... that you didn't... "

She didn't speak, just watched him. Her eyes flickered  between hurt and
rage and sympathy and that frightening,  fucking *nuts* faraway look --

"Willow?"

She shook her head slowly, bit her lip.

"Why... why didn't you tell us? It would've been... you  could've *told*
us, and... and maybe Giles could've made the  spell work --"

"Werewolves can't be bound by anything but the moon --"

"*Shut* *Up*. Giles. Just... just shut up!" And then he walked  again,
tried to reach Willow but she was the one backing away  now, leaving
him, *running* from him and he ran at her,  grabbed her around the arm
and held her there. Watched her  eyes, and her twitching hand, and the
strange, strange motion  of her lips as she... as she...

Xander threw her away from him and scrubbed the weirdly oil- slick feel
of... of some sort of spell away. A spell on him.

"Willow, I... you killed her." No, she didn't, not being fair, she
didn't she...

"No..." Low, thick sound in her voice. Oil. More oil what was  she going
to do to him?

"I loved her and... and you killed her."

"Xander, *no* --"

"Shut *up*, you... oh, God, you did it, you really... you really did it.
Didn't you?"

This time, he didn't wait for an answer, just headed for the  door.
Brushed off Giles' hold on his shoulder as gently as he  could, stopped
up his ears against all the fucking *words* and  opened the door.

And found himself face to face with a stranger.

Giles' aged guy.  Wiry.  Still living in the Seventies and  definitely
vibing... something odd.  Only years of habitual  niceness stopped
Xander from just shoving past the guy,  leaving all the mess behind.
But barely.

Left him open-mouthed, word-free, stumped.  The stranger  just smiled, a
little dark curl of lip.  Inexplicably raised his  hand to rest two warm
fingertips on the flat of Xander's  breastbone.  Xander gaped.

"I see you're in a hurry," the man said, Britishly.  "but if you  don't
mind, I'll just remove this 'trip before the two of us  go up in flames.
All right?"

Xander found himself looking right into the stranger's eyes  -- wide
eyes, dark, and coloured somewhere between moss and  mud -- and nodding
vaguely.  Was shocked when sudden heat  flushed out from those fingers
on his chest.

It ran his body, burning away the oily slickness of Willow's  spell.
Left him clean.  Empty.  There was movement behind him  and he realized
that for the whole time he'd been looking at the stranger there hadn't
been and now, it hurt to hear it:

Willow, yelling, raw and angry:  "You *bastard*." and the  sharp shove
of her fists in his ribs as she pushed him aside.   Ran past.  And
thought maybe it wasn't really right that  he hadn't moved, was still
staring into the stranger's eyes,  but he knew it wasn't a spell.

He was clean and Giles was behind him saying:

"Ethan."  Somewhere between fury and relief and Xander  thought: of
course it's Ethan.  And Ethan gave him a  conspiratory almost wink that
weirdly made Xander feel...  better.

"At your service.  Timing impeccable as always, yes?"

*

Humming happily to herself, Drusilla slipped out of the factory and into
the night.  She stretched and giggled softly  with delight at the
sensation of growing taller.  Someday, she  thought, someday she would
like to try that, to grow  impossibly tall and see if her head could
touch the sky. But  not tonight. Tonight she had to find something.
Something  pretty.

Her teeth suddenly ached for the taste of Cordelia's blood.  Drusilla
closed her eyes and stretched again, this time with  her senses, and
could *feel* Cordelia on the other side of  town.  Pretty, pretty
thoughts of Cordelia filled her mind and  suddenly her clit ached as
well.

Filled with a vague sense of purpose, she sauntered east,  toward her
pretty.

A curious scent made her stop along the way, something sweet  with an
underlying odor of decay.   She followed the scent to  a bank of
overblown roses, pampered darlings that had been  neglected and gone
feral.  "So lovely," she crooned, rubbing a  large, pink blossom against
her cheek.  Pressing deeper into  the roses, her foot brushed something
soft and giving and  suddenly a dark, brown smell overpowered the
perfume of the  roses.

She knelt, pushed the leaves aside and stared down into the  dead,
staring eyes of a girl child.  "Pretty little thing",  Drusilla
murmured. "Poor little dear.  Didn't your mummy take care of you?"  She
brushed back more leaves and critically examined the spilled  intestines
and jagged edges of flesh around the opened stomach.  "Or did you meet
something, then?  Something..."  and her voice trailed off as she
touched the child's cold, still  fingers and found a piece of reddish
blonde fur.

Drusilla rolled the fur between her fingers, then brushed it  over her
cheek as she had the rose and smiled.  Soft.  So soft  and still
smelling of the roses the beast must have crouched  under, waiting for
the little one.

"You should have paid attention to the stories, dearie," she  told the
corpse.  "Roses are always hiding something."   She  stripped the petals
from a perfect red blossom and scattered  them over the child's face
before leaving.

Humming again, she turned aside from the faint pull that was  Cordelia
and thought about werewolves and rose covered  cottages and pretty
little girls.  The roses and the body had  been a gift and a sign.  She
knew that, could feel it in her  bones.  All she had to do was follow
the elusive scent of  roses and she would find the prize waiting for
her.

She never questioned exactly how she knew things.  Once upon  a time
she'd thought perhaps it was a gift from her sire.  And  as always, she
shivered and yearned at the thought of *him*,  so lovely, so cruel and
so generous with his gifts.  Spike  wanted him dead, but she, oh, she
just *wanted*.  Wanted to  play with him, to fuck him, to sing to him,
to drink his blood.   She wanted him back.

Following the scent, thinking of Angelus, she moved into a  wooded area
and felt an aura of power tickle her nerve  endings.  Here.  Whatever
her prize was, she would find it  here.

*

He runs for the sheer joy of it.  Chasing the moon, chasing  the prey,
both fill him with fierce delight.

Tonight, his belly already full, he follows the waning moon.   And there
was something wrong there, something not right  about the moon being
anything but bloated and round.  He throws his head back and howls a
question at the sky.  The answer  drifts through his mind, but it is too
complex and too fleeting  and it *hurts*.

He whines, deep in his throat, shakes his head and runs until  his
awareness narrows down to only each gulp of cool, sweet  air and the
burn in his muscles. The tiny ache in his eye,  healing but not fast
enough and he wants to clean it but can't  quite reach.

Scenting water and other animals, he veers toward it/them.

Cold metal and a faint man smell make him hesitate, then the  muscles of
his haunches bunch and he is airborne over the  barrier and then in.
Here he pauses again and sniffs,  satisfied at the luscious mix of
fur/flesh/food in his nose.

He pads to a pool of water, laps until he has enough, watches  the
sleek, dark figures gliding just below the surface.  A  word -- seals --
comes to him in a bright flash of pain and he  growls to drive it away.
He does not need to know names or  words.  He can smell and taste what
things are, if they are  food or poison, prey or competition -- and a
new smell comes to him  and his ears prick forward, listening -- or kin.

He follows the wafting scent and the music of their low,  cringing
whines and he growls when he sees them, when he  knows they are not
kin.  Close things barred away from him,  trapped, but they are too
small, too sleek and their language  is not his.

A female in heat yips at him.  Her fangs shine in the  moonlight as her
lips pull back in a grin of fear.  But he does  not want her, does not
react to her belly crawl of submission  with anything but another growl.

But just seeing the pack sparks a need in him, one he hasn't  been aware
of before, but now knows was there all along,  buried beneath the food
hunger.  His kind.  He wants *his*  kind.

So he snarls and turns and runs back to where the prey can be  found.
Because prey exists to be hunted and he knows he isn't  the only one,
can't be the only hunter.  He has smelled the  others, the cold ones who
smell like old blood and death.  *They* have a pack.  Now all he needs
to do is find his.

*

Out on the street and running, clutching the book like a  shield, Willow
realized she was crying.  A litany of 'not fair,  not fair, this was not
fucking fair' ran through her mind with  each stumbling step.

It wasn't supposed to have happened that way.  Giles was  supposed to
have understood, to *know* how sorry she was,  how none of this, *none*
of this was supposed to have  happened.  And Xander.  She moaned out
loud at the thought  of Xander staring at her with hot, hate-filled,
shock- filled eyes and wanted for just one second to go back to
explain.  She wouldn't have hurt him, wouldn't ever hurt him,  she'd
just been so angry, so hurt and the spell just slipped  out, beyond her
ability to call back, to stop.

But they'd never believe that now, not while they were angry.   And her
mind replayed the words, "stupid, arrogant girl" until  she almost
screamed, then did scream when she realized she  was still running, but
didn't know where, just knew damn well  she couldn't go home.  She
couldn't go home.

They would find her there and the soft murmur of power that  previously
consoled her now filled her mind with images of  chains and dark, deep,
hidden rooms and told her they would  never, *ever* let her out again.
They hated her and now they  didn't need her because *he* was there.

Willow stopped, panting, and shook her head.  Part of her  knew that
wasn't right.  They were angry, so angry, but they  loved her.  Xander
loved her, he wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't  let anyone hurt her, even
though she was the reason Kendra -- and her mind shut that thought down,
but not before she  remembered ripping and gurgling sounds and Xander's
awful cry that was supposed to be Kendra's name.

The book was a reassuring weight in her arms, so she hugged  it to her.
This time when the whispered voices crawled  through her mind, she
cocked her head.

Listened.  She heard wind rustling through wet leaves and a  faint, far
off howl.  And felt the beginnings of a plan.

She could still fix this.  She could.  If she found Oz, *when*  she
found Oz, she could fix him and show them and then they  would
understand that she... she could do anything.  Anything.

Willow closed her eyes, thought of Oz as she'd last seen him  and felt a
brief, bright stab of grief/regret/sorrow that  momentarily shattered
the cool green mist of power in her  mind.

How could they not see *her* pain?  How could they blame her  when they
*had* to know that she'd lost someone too?

Flash of Oz silently screaming before turning to her, eyes all  black
and his raised hands elongating and she shuddered  before letting the
mental picture change to one of fangs and  fur and blood.

She concentrated, breathed in and felt calm again as she  began casting,
chanting, "Find him, find him, find him," under  her breath, willing the
power to her will and felt it leap out  and away and deep into the
woods, under the cool, wet trees.

And felt it rebound and snap around her in cool, damp  caresses that
left Willow bruised and screaming. There'd  been nothing about... this
wasn't --

"Hush, hush little sweeting, little witchling..."

Felt cool, dry hands slip around her own, smaller and silky- soft. There
was a moment in which the woman's brown eyes  were the only thing in the
world and then Willow did the only  thing she could think of -- reached
out and punched her.

Willow shook off the cold, intimate fingers of the woman's  spell -- was
this what they felt? -- and slammed out to lash  the strange woman with
a binding of her own, thick cables of  life, vegetative and slow from
the lower reaches where no  sunlight... and that was the other danger.

It would be so easy to fall inside a spell, just one, and tease  out
every element that made it, and the elements of those.  Someday. When
she didn't have so much to... and she  remembered the woman, looked down
to find her twisted, half- on, half-off the ground, body pulled and held
in something like  mid-writhe.

Willow could feel the spell, see it only as a pale winking  shimmer. See
it cover the woman like a shroud.

The woman wasn't breathing.

Ice water, then creeping hot prickles along her scalp as  though her
hair was ripping itself out from the roots in the  brief moment of
stark, panicked terror until she realized  that the woman was...
speaking to her.

"... out there... searching... who have you lost? Where did you  leave
them?"

"What are you?"

"Come closer... I can't see you, so beautiful..."

Willow found herself kneeling closer before she could stop  herself,
lashed out again with another punch, this time to the  woman's
midsection.

Silk on her knuckles, cold hard flesh beneath that made her  wince.
"Stop that, you... vampire!"

Easy giggle, one that Willow could watch from where she  knelt. The
vampire was stuck in a position with her chin  jutted high into the air,
head bent back, hair brushing the  ground. What happened when vampires
had their throats slit?  How long before it healed? How much blood could
they lose  before they were too weak to kill and Willow found herself
stroking the pale expanse of throat when Drusilla started  giggling
again.

"Such an affectionate little thing, such a strong one. Do you  like good
dollies?"

Willow punched and punched at the vampire until she was too  focused on
the hurt to hear her, feel her. She had to be a  witch, too, vampire
witch and maybe stronger than she and did  death strengthen the powers
could Hecate would Hecate love  the night creatures more? Pain and cool
silk and the round of  a breast against her knuckles, against her poorly
placed thumb, almost soft.

Willow remembered Grandmother Rachel in her coffin, stuffed  still and
waxy with chemicals and bit her lip and the vampire  let out a hissing
moan when Willow finally couldn't punch any  longer.

Not just a moan, a name: Drusilla.

"I could stake you right here. There's broken twigs all over  the place.
No matter what your magic is... I could kill you."  Could she?

"Vicious little girl..." Willow could hear the dreamy smile,  even
though she still managed to hold herself from looking at  Drusilla's
face. "You'd never find your pretty."

"I can *feel* him, Drusilla. You'll have to do better than  that." Yes,
make her work, make her know who's in control  here...

"He can feel you, too... he runs and runs and runs from you, all
naughty children run." Drusilla's voice dropped to a  conspiratorial
whisper. "That's why you mustn't ever unchain  them."

"What? What are you talking about... he's not --" Willow  caught herself
moving closer and scowled at herself. Realized  that she should have
just... *twisted* here, just so. And felt  the last of Drusilla's charm
drop away from her like smoke.

For a moment she was sure she was naked, and then it passed  and she
could finally look Drusilla safely in the eye. "Tell me what you mean."

"Ohhh... I can *see* it in you! So much power... I could let you  have
this forever..."

"I don't need you for that. Tell me about Oz or I'll --"

"Will you hurt me this time? Will you make it real?"

Willow shivered despite herself at the images, at the simple  truth of
how what she could not do with her hands could be  done so very easily
with her power. And then she had to laugh  at herself -- she'd finally
met someone who was happy about  her power and she was mad.

And, well, evil.

"You tell me or I'll leave you, just like this. Leave you for  the sun
to rise." Did they scream when that happened? Did it have time to hurt
or were they just afraid to die?

"Did you know my Daddy?" "I only knew one vampire and he's dead now
and... and I hope  he *was* your Daddy, because --"

"Oh, you did..."

Willow reached out with her mind, pouring out through the  tiny spot in
her forehead that sometimes seemed to pulse  just under the spectrum of
touch now, poured herself out and  touched the icy sweetness that was
Drusilla and yanked.

Willow thought her scream shook the treetops until she  realized that
the wind was just blowing a little harder. It  didn't occur to her to
look around, to see if anyone would  come to help.

There were always other screams and this... this was  something entirely
new. Drusilla's eyes glittered up at her  and Willow felt sick and
scared and... and warm. Like Jesse's  touches when it was new, when it
was only the two of them  because Xander was... sick again.

Jesse's treehouse and Jesse's grass-stained fingers inside  her blouse
and the way that after that it was always her and  Xander and Xander and
Jesse. Not really three any more, or  equilateral, or good, but... warm.

So she did it again, and felt a little of the confusion, a little of
the hurt bleed away from the edges of a mosaic she could  almost see,
something important if she only --

"Ohhh..."

The moan jerked Willow out of her thoughts and she lashed  out again
without thinking, distracted enough that the  original body-binding
spell slipped just enough for Drusilla to  break free of it entirely.

And lay there.

Waiting. Willow trembled on the edge of another casting but Drusilla
didn't move anything but her mouth -- a hungry, happy smile.  "That's
it... make me tell you."

*

Spike grabbed the bottle off the warped and splintery bartop  and took a
long pull. Egert's special blend of human blood,  Gengas bile, and
everclear. It cost a bloody fortune, it tasted  vile, and it was Spike's
favorite substance on earth.

The Traxar demon shifted a bit beneath his bootheel and  Spike ground
down a little harder. The pain pheromones the  ugly bastard was sending
out would bring his mates 'round  right quick, and Spike was itching for
a good --

Heavy cracking thump between his shoulderblades and Spike  was down and
the Traxar was gnawing on his leg and *this*  was what it was about.
Braced himself on the sticky floor and  bent-knee kicked up. Felt the
impact all the way up his leg  because he'd hit one of the horny parts
and the other one was  still trying to chew through his pants and Spike
twisted,  hard, threw one elbow down and one fist up and the Traxars
paused, stunned.

And then Spike was up and moving, listening to the flap of his  duster
behind him and laughing and jab to the one rolling eye  and whoops all
the way back through to the brain. He yanked  out a handful and threw it
at the one still moving.

It growled and hrked and garrrred as it stumbled in the  general
direction of the door. And *that* was a fucking  unpleasant reminder.

Spike had, despite all efforts to the contrary, acquired an  entourage.

Of the stupidest, most boring new vampires he had ever seen.  And could
he kill the bovine fuckers? No.

Because bloody Dru loved all her bloody children and wanted  *all* her
bloody children to play bloody nice.

Including Spike.

He grabbed a bottle of the bar and drank, then promptly spat  it at the
wanker behind the bar.

Wrong bottle.

Next thing he knew, the wanker was fucking *unfolding* into  something
big, orange, and entirely un-wanklike. A Chusc.  Whoops. Spike backed
away slowly and immediately slipped in  a puddle of Traxar and fell on
his ass.

And then the Chusc was pouring itself over the bar and  Spike's kick
just got him half-swallowed in muscular goo.    Flowed up his arms to
the elbows.  Pinned him there.

The wanker face reformed out of the pinkish mass.

"Now then," said, the Chusc, somewhere between jovial and  threatening.
"How about we all just cool down, eh mate?   Before things get out of
hand and someone gets hurt?"

"Yeah?" Spike spat, struggling a little.  "And how about you  mind your
own bloody business?  Bloody cheek, steppin' into  the middle of a
private dust-up.   Who d'you think you are,  Rodney-sodding-King?"

"Just the owner," said the Chusc.  "And I'm giving you the  chance to
back off now.  Relax.  Have a friendly drink."

"And if I don't?"  The Chusc smiled and *clenched*.  Spike  felt his
bones creak and important inner workings shifted  painfully.  All hope
of a healthy scream was choked off in the  squeezing and then it was
gone.

"What do you say, young fella?"  Spike said nothing.  Dropped  his eyes.
The wanker face winked and nodded smugly.  The goo withdrew, reformed
itself into a pudgy, balding humanoid in a checked  shirt and stretch
denim pants with matching belt and headed  back toward the bar. Spike
got to his feet, dusting off the  duster, slowly raised his head.

If the Chusc had been looking he might have caught the  distinctly
not-nice grin unfurling across Spike's face. But as it was, he missed
that entirely and thus also completely  failed to avoid Spike's slowly
reaching hand plunging into the  still malleable substance of its turned
back.  It did, however, become aware almost immediately of the cold
fingers moving  around inside its chest, wrapping themselves around the
only  solid part of its anatomy.

Unfortunately for it, that momentary awareness came too  late, as Spike
wrapped his fist around the heart and yanked.

There was a clean, rubbery snapping sound and Spike's hand  emerged,
wrapped around a small, grey organ.  The Chusc  collapsed like a
mudslide on a rainy day.  Spike smiled, poked  it with one booted toe.

He looked around at the now roomful of suddenly alert and  angry looking
demons, coming toward him, rolling up their  sleeves.  Big demons.

Lots of 'em.  Very pissed.  Apparently the Chusc was a  popular kind of
bloke with masses of mates.

And there at the edges of the room, all the little wanker  vampfants
who'd tagged along -- all of them game-face,  suddenly bright eyed and
bushy tailed.  Oh man, there was  going to be a Hell of a fight here any
minute now.  You'd have  to be a bloody fool to stand here at ground
zero.

He dropped the crushed Chusc heart onto the bar where it  landed with a
wet thump.

"*I* say:  I don't take  orders from Silly Putty." And Spike  felt his
grin turn mean and his face ridge up like a hardon for  the fight.  "How
about you?"

*

The boy, Ethan, thought, might be a problem.  As could  Ripper's rather
irritatingly obvious affection for him.

He took another sip of Ripper's inferior Californian brandy  and studied
them.  Ripper, predictably, sat on the far end of  the couch, the boy,
struggling to stay wake, next to him.   Between them.  Interesting.

"He's very..." Ethan said slowly, letting his voice trail off so  Ripper
could imagine what he would say next.  /Delicious.   Darling.  Eminently
fuckable.  God, Ripper was so easy to  read./  "Protective," he finally
said.

"Xander has been through rather a lot," Ripper said coldly.   Warning
him off, then.  Well, well.

"So you said.  *Two* Slayers dead."  He tsked, mock sadly.   "And your
little witch gone all nasty and bad because of a  spell gone out of
control.  My oh my.  These are *very*  troubling things, Ripper."

The boy directed a heavy, sullen glare at him and Ethan smiled  in
delight. Oh you are just lovely, he thought.  "But then you  don't need
me to tell you that."

Ripper laid a hand on the boy's shoulder, Xander, he reminded  himself,
and said, "Look, if you're just going to be  insufferable and gloat-"

"Oh, do let me," Ethan interrupted.  "It's so hard not to when  you were
the one to call *me*."

And there was glint of the old Ripper, just below the tweed  and
sensible glasses, and Ethan decided to see if he could  make him come
out and play. Unlikely while the boy was around, but still... one had to
try.   Besides, and he gave Xander a considering look, it might be...
fun.

"I was *so* touched," he continued in a low murmur.   "Honestly, I
almost didn't recognize your voice.  It was so  desperate and," he
allowed himself a smirk, "needy."

When Ripper's lips thinned, Ethan needled, "You do need me,  right?  I
mean, here you are with no back up save for this  rather deliciously
angry child. And from my little saunter  through town it seemed to *me*
that any help you might find  there is fast going the way of the Dodo."

With a half-sigh, half-snarl, Ripper gave him a grim, angry  little nod.

"Say it then."

"Say what?"

"Ripper," he chided gently.  "You were never this obtuse.  You  know
what I want.  Say it."

Xander let out a little gasp and pulled away from Ripper's  hand, then
threw Ethan an angry, confused glance.  No.  He  had no idea, did he?
So lovely *and* innocent.  How *did*  Ripper resist?  "I'm waiting," he
said mildly.

The words, when they came, were almost growled.  "I need your help."

And that wasn't *quite* what he wanted, but it was close enough.  For
now.  "Well, you know me, Ripper.  Ready, willing and able to... help."

"What is he going to do?" Xander muttered.  "Swish at the enemy?"

Well.  Maybe not so innocent.  Lovely.  "I have my ways, Ripper knows.
Tell him, Ripper."  /Yes, tell him *everything* and let's see those big
dark eyes get even bigger./

"Ethan has powers," Giles said reluctantly.  "And some skill in using
them."

"Oh, sod the polite way of putting things.  Christ, Ripper, haven't you
told him *anything* about your past?"  Ethan turned to Xander and
savored the way Ripper's face momentarily blanched, then hardened.  "I
summon demons, child.  Dark, big, scary ones that would just love to eat
something like you for breakfast."

He leaned closer and added, "And so does he," jerking his chin toward
Ripper.  Xander leaned back, almost pressing into Ripper's chest, and
let out a nervous sounding little laugh. "Oh that's going to be a big
help.  Because, you know I can see where we need *more* demons."

"What we need, lovely, is to get the hell out of town.  But somehow I
sense that is not in the cards."

Xander simply stared at him blankly, but Ripper actually looked amused.
Ethan knew he should have let it pass, but... "Yes, Ripper?"

"Nothing, old man. Not really. It just occurred to me that you certainly
have no reason to stay here. Though... it is nice to have you working to
fill my needs." And it was all right there. An older, mocking Ripper
seeming to burn through all the tweed and bullshit just to give him a
dare.

There had never been the option of resistance.

"Well, Ripper.... you've always had the most diverting needs of anyone
I've ever met."

Ripper laughed then and, when the boy looked at him as though he'd just
mutated into something green and hairy, laughed harder. Ethan felt
something... loosen inside that he hadn't known he was holding. When
Ripper laughed, Ripper trusted.

"Suddenly, I have a lot of questions that I don't really want answered
right now. So I'm going to bed."

Ethan gave Xander his best grin and turned back to Ripper, who was
shaking his head at him.

"What?"

Xander stopped before closing the door behind him. "Giles?"

Ripper changed focus instantly, concern masking everything else for a
maddening moment. "Yes, Xander?"

"I... trust you."

And then they were alone, on Ripper's bourgeois couch, in Ripper's
distinctly tweedy flat.

Ethan forced himself to stop a moment, think. For all intents and
purposes, he'd agreed to not only continue *living* on the bloody
Hellmouth, but to actively oppose the forces surrounding it. There were
no guarantees, never any guarantees, and there were still those
thrice-accursed dreams to think about, and --

"Ethan, I think it's time for a bit of mayhem."

"I thought you'd never ask."

*

Giles supposed it was fruitless to patrol.  Ethan had been entirely,
depressingly correct.  The streets were empty and all the houses dark.
The residents of Sunnydale -- never really all that bright -- at least
seemed to have the good sense to stay in hiding after sunset.  That, or
the town was already dead. Still.  One more night cooped up with Ethan
and his particular brand of flirtation and Xander was going to do
something rash.  And Ethan never did cope well with long periods of
inactivity.

He hoped getting out, making the pretense of doing *something*, might
ease some of the tension, but Ethan was nothing if not focused.  And
right now he had Xander's composure in his sights.

"What kind of name is Xander anyway?"

Giles glanced over at Xander, noted that while his lips were compressed
in irritation, he was intent and aware of their surroundings.

Good lad.

"I suppose it's short for something," Ethan continued.  He strolled
along beside them, hands in his pockets, casual and all loose-hipped
elegance.  "Alexander?  I never understood the American fondness for
chopping apart words and names.  But then I suppose you Yanks never
understood the power of proper names.  Isn't that right, Ripper?"

"Oh do give it a rest, Ethan," Giles muttered.  "Or at the very least
try not to announce our presence quite so loudly."

"I keep telling you, Ripper --" and he was cut off when a vampire
dropped down on him from a tree.

Xander ran straight for Ethan, half-jarring Giles as he pulled his own
stake. Xander was nearly upon them when Ethan twisted and rolled until
he had the vampire pinned to the ground. Made a gesture that twisted the
air around his fingers, then leapt back as the vampire burst into flame,
smiling delightedly.

"As I was saying," he said, as he brushed the dirt and grass off his
sleeves, "I doubt there's anything in the immediate vicinity I can't
handle."

Xander gave Ethan's fingers a look of appalled respect.  "You said he
summoned demons.  You didn't tell me he did *that*."

"He never used to," Giles said slowly.  "Ethan?"

Ethan tilted his head and smiled charmingly at Giles.  "Just a bit of a
parlor trick, that. Can't make it work very often, but when it does,
it's always a hit."

"You didn't know if it would work?"  Xander twisted around and stared at
Giles with a look of outrage, silently demanding Ethan be chastised.

Oh bugger all. "Ethan," he began firmly.

"Yes, Ripper?"

Feeling helplessly, disgustingly fussy, he said, "This isn't the place
or time for parlor tricks or showing off.  If you can't-"

"Play nicely with the other children?  Stay with the group?  Behave
myself?"  Ethan suggested helpfully, still with that little smile.

"Yes, all of that, or you shouldn't be here."

Ethan's smile widened until he was showing his teeth.  "Oh, well.  By
all means, let's behave then because I do so adore being here.
Especially when you do that rather charming imitation of your father."

And that stung, just as Ethan had intended it should.  Of course, Ethan
had always pushed him, prodded him until he lost his temper, lost
control, and then Ethan would take delighted advantage of the situation.

Unless he played along.

"I hadn't realized the depth of your feelings about my father, Ethan."

Brief, uncontrolled chuckle. "It was the jowls, of course. Great
shivering floppy things. I always wondered what they would feel like if
--"

"Ethan." The images were assaulting him, and, by the wide-eyed horror in
his eyes, Xander, too.

"Terribly sorry." Smug smile. "I know we should be careful of young
Xander's delicate sensibilities."

"Hey, I can take homo-erotic teasing as well as the next American
teenaged male, which is why I'm considering running away."

Xander was grinning while he said it, through the highly visible blush.
Giles felt himself waver on the edge. Protect him or... what? Try to
cheer him up? Blushing had to be better than brooding, and it had been
so *long* since he'd been able to just... play.

Giles ruthlessly shoved the massive wave of reasons why he *hadn't* let
down his guard as far away as possible. "Oh, come now, Xander. We were
all in my car together. I saw the way you and Oz were looking at each
other."

And immediately the blunder was there, *right* there. No safe ground,
none at all, and Ethan was chuckling ignorantly and Xander was...
smiling. Bleak, but smiling.

"I was young, he was older. Experienced. Guitar-playing. He stole my
innocence..."

And it was easier to laugh at that, squeeze Xander's shoulder, than
scrape away at the painfully thin layer to reveal everything else. Ethan
watched everything, thankfully silent.

"Giles... can we just go kill things now? I... I don't think I can
really --"

He felt something twist, hard. God, he was a fool. Twenty years almost
entirely away from Ethan and he was still a terrible, terrible fool.
"We'll try the cemetery, then."

There was no balance, none at all. And he could blame Ethan for pushing
him, for demanding the high wire act. But all Ethan really wanted, or
thought he wanted, was his near-mythical Ripper back. There had been
enough brief, difficult encounters over the years to prove that. And
whose fault was it that Giles felt desperate to provide for him? Some
false and inexpertly crafted impression of Ripper to... keep Ethan
there.

The fall air was clean and sweet and ominous as ever. Ethan toyed with a
simple, prosaic stiletto, overlong. Affected weapon of choice. Xander
had sloughed off all pretense and was simply hunting. The night
provided.

Sunnydale proper was crawling with vampires, other demons. All doing
their best to empty the streets further. Packs, couples, singles, roving
around and noticeably... hungry. The town was dying around them all, but
as one of his former neighbors came at him, claws raised in a parody of
its breed, Giles decided to believe that killing whichever ones they
could, actually made a difference.

*

The crypt almost glowed with wards of power in the night.  Dru felt her
step grow lighter as sheapproached and heard a low, steady stream of
curses through the locked doors.  Good.  She was still alive.  Sometimes
her pets died.

"I've got food," she called out in a sing-song voice.  "Are you going to
be good, pet?"

"Drusilla?"  Her name was a thin shriek of rage.

"Yes, sweet."

"Let. Me. Out."

Dru leaned her forehead against the cool marble of the doors and almost
moaned in delight at the nearly palpable waves of fury flowing through
them.  "When you're ready, darling."

She smiled when the girl didn't answer.  "Are you hungry?  I bet you
are." How long had it been since she'd fed her?  Nights?  Sometimes it
was hard to remember and sometimes she wondered if she only dreamt the
pretty, pretty witch with such delicious power.  When she *did*
remember, she brought food.  Like tonight.

Dru opened her eyes and looked at the plate of food, all red and cold
and picked off of a table in an abandoned house.  It needed something.
She ran a nail over wrist and let her blood run over the congealed pasta
and tomato sauce.  There.

"I have food," she told the silence behind the door, then slipped
through the wards and unlocked the door and saw...nothing. Ooooh,
lovely.  She wanted to play.

"Here, kitty, kitty.  Mummy has dinner."

A low growl just above her was her only warning before Willow dropped.
With a giggle of delight, Dru sidestepped and whirled to see Willow
plummet to the floor and land in a crouch.

"I swear to god, I'm going to hurt you," Willow ground out.  So pretty
now, all big eyes and sharp bones and so much anger.

"I know you are, pet." Dru held out the plate and coaxed, "Eat first and
then we can play."

Drusilla arranged herself on the lip of the one massive marble coffin in
the crypt. Inside were bones so old that they crumbled at the touch.

Sunnydale had been a place of the dead long before the mortals came.

Drusilla hummed at the memory of Willow's first attempt to kill her,
yellowed thigh bone in one hand, shaking with fear and rage...

She had laid back in herself and watched it happen, watched the little
witch run for her, watched blue-green eyes widen in the dimness as the
old bone cracked into several pieces.

And then Drusilla had gathered her in and held her and held her until
she was still and whispering old, old words in languages that haunted
Drusilla's dreams. It had been better than she'd imagined, the creeping
thorn-vines of Willow's spell slipping up slow and tiny through the
cracks in the floor.

They had settled into her flesh, and Willow's flesh as well, tore the
flesh and broke themselves into crystalline dust at the effort to do
more.

Willow wasn't able cast well within the wards.

Drusilla climbed back up to herself and found Willow gorging herself on
the food, shuddering now and again, never taking her eyes off Drusilla.
She was a very good girl most of the time, though sometimes her body
refused Drusilla's gifts and had to be punished.

It was good to have living flesh again, to feel the warmth pulsing just
beneath, making Drusilla need.

And her little witch folded in on herself, curled in and took every
slap, every pinch, scratch, and suckle... so beautiful and smudged
white.

Again and again until that point where Willow pulled deep and deep
within her, to the darkness left by Daddy, and yes, she knew, she knew
now and the power there was old, deep and dark and connected to every
ley beneath. Made the air tremble around them both.

And then Willow would rise.

Like she was doing now.

Rise and shiver through the power until she was perfectly still within
it, calm and ready. Still trapped within the crypt as Dru was not, but
ready.

Willow touched Drusilla's forehead, showed her blunt, square teeth. The
first wave of power knocked her back into the sarcophagus, cracked her
skull on marble and --

black and --

Willow crouched above her, dirty long nails digging small holes in her
arm, at her collarbone.

"Give me Oz."

"More..."

The next blow was the lick of flame within her mind. Drusilla felt
months, years of dry old memory flare and disappear in dust and she knew
and didn't know her name and she knew and didn't know everything of who
she was, because she was pulled, pulling herself deep into the warm blue
of Willow's eyes.

So warm and hungry.

Eventually, Willow would stop asking about Oz and just keep hurting her,
again and again, the way Spike never could, the way Daddy had only
taunted. Drusilla felt herself melt and change under the touch.

Everything bright and fresh and clear as terror until Willow collapsed
from exhaustion, just as the dawn started to scratch at her senses.

Drusilla waited under the girl's soft weight, felt her soul pulse with
her heartbeat, felt the sear blister and heal itself all within her
until she felt as tight as a tick.

Drusilla waited, and settled herself. Willow would wake again soon.

*

Xander drew the drapes closed against the early morning sun, closed his
eyes and leaned his forehead against the window frame, then winced as
several muscles in his neck protested.  And that's what you get for not
stretching before patrol, he thought tiredly.  It was a sign that even
Giles was not all together *there* that he hadn't reminded him.  But
then, none of them, with the exception of Ethan, seemed to be operating
normally anymore.  If you could call Ethan normal.

He stepped back, rolled his neck, opened his eyes and gave his bedroll a
longing look.  Fuck, he couldn't ever remember being this tired.  Last
night's patrol had taken on an eerie, fun house quality after a while.
No matter where they went, vamps sprang out at them.  And no matter how
many they killed, more appeared.  Eventually Xander felt like he was
trapped on a nightmare carnival's midway, playing a never ending game of
Whack-a-Mole.

It was abundantly clear they were outnumbered.  He doubted *anything*
they did now was going to make a difference.  And honestly, he didn't
know how much more of this he could take, if he could stand even one
more loss.

For a moment he stood stock still and just listened the reassuring
sounds of Giles upstairs, the soft whisper of clothes hitting the floor
and a muffled groan as Giles no doubt discovered some aches of his own.

And how fucked up was it when the last person he cared about and needed
was Giles?  Granted, he'd never really had many friends or ever been
really close to his family, but this was almost beyond comprehension.
Jessie, Willow, Buffy, and Kendra.  Gone.  Just... gone.

There weren't even any graves to mark their brief lives.  He had nothing
left of them except a few trinkets.  Fishing them out of the pockets of
his cammo pants -- a charm from Buffy's bracelet, a cheap little four
leaf clover with the metal already pocked and tarnished. A head from one
of Willow's Barbies, ripped off when a game of war went terribly awry.

Jessie's lucky rock, smooth from being wished on so many times.

A lock of Kendra's hair, beginning to knot from spending too much time
in his pocket. He set them on the windowsill in a neat, bare little
row.  Stared at them, thinking, as always, maybe there was something he
should do here.

Something religious maybe.  Pray, or... something.  But there was
nothing -- what could he do?  Apologize?  Tell them he was sorry, so
sorry for failing them, for not protecting them, for not keeping them
safe?

Yeah, that would impress the shit out of them.  Y'know, if they were
still alive to hear it. Which they weren't.  Because he *couldn't*...

And he ruthlessly cut off the sob that tried to rip itself out of his
chest.   Angry:

/*No!*  Dammit.  No.  You fuck up this bad you don't *get* to cry for
yourself. You don't get -- /

And it was good that it hurt like this, like someone had punched him
right there in the throat.

And he could almost hear Giles in the Voice of Reason, pointing out he
couldn't have been expected to do any of those things.  Except the Giles
in his head had the same feral, frozen look in his eyes that Giles had
started wearing lately.   Especially after patrolling all night.

Reading all day.  Sparring until they were both burning and... honed.

For all the good it did.  Yeah, good old Voice of Reason Giles calling
in his old *friend* who just *reeked* of sanity and sensibility and...

/dirty backbrain whisper: "sex"/

Christ, it was too much already.

/So end it.../

"Wha--?" he asked aloud, surprised to hear his own voice rusty and dumb.

/End it, you dumb piece of useless shit.  Why not?/

Dumb question.  He *knew* the answer to that one.

"Because Giles needs me," he whispered.  His fingers fumbled over the
metal charm.

/Unh-hunh.  And why is that, Xander?  Why *does* Giles need you?  Maybe
because you blew off the St. John's Ambulance course so that when it
came to the crunch you just, oh say, let Buffy die?/ And he had to
swallow harder this time to keep the sob down.  Something in his throat
had razors in it, claws reaching down right into his chest.

/Or maybe he needed you to fuck with his *other* slayer, hmm?  Needed
you to get her all hot and bothered and distracted so that... so
that.../

Fingers reaching blindly for the little ball of hair, vision shimmering
like mercury.  He didn't let himself touch that.

"...sorry..."

/Still not good enough, okay?  Sorry, but 'sorry' just doesn't quite do
the sitch justice./

"I know."  Just mouthing now, no sound able to escape past the blockage
in his throat.

/And maybe Willow needed you for that too.  For making her have to do
that magic in the first place, for making her need to be the one who let
all that magic into her, fucked her up so bad.  And maybe she was dead
now, too.  Like Jesse.   Definitely Jesse needed you to *kill* him
and.../

/I *know*.   I know.  Please stop.  Please...?/

Shaking now.  So tired and cold and empty except for this thing trying
to choke the life out of him and he suddenly didn't know... He wasn't
sure if he could stand to *feel* this any more.  All this black and
nothing on the other side.  Like what difference would it make if he
ever did feel better. They were all.  Fucking.  Gone.

He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed himself back against the wall and
waited for the voice that was his own voice to say something else.  But
inside his head was suddenly, strangely quiet.

He found himself thinking for no reason he could imagine, about the way
Giles looked at Ethan Rayne.  About the way sometimes some kind of light
went on in Giles' eyes when Ethan was messing with him, like Giles
wanted to laugh maybe.  Or like there was some other person hiding
inside the Giles suit that wanted to come out and... do things Xander
really didn't want to imagine.

And couldn't help it, couldn't help but see Ethan kind of cupping Giles'
cheek and Giles maybe, smiling...

And the way Giles always seemed to catch Xander's eye and sigh before he
shoved the other person back behind whatever and got back to work. Yeah.

Yeah.  He could see that.  He could see this house, this room without
him in it.  Getting cleaned up, cleaned out.  Made into a normal room
again.  Giles putting all his books away.  Being that other guy who
liked guys and... whatever.  Happy Giles.  That could happen, maybe.
Would be okay.  If he was gone.

/Gone... gone... no pain anymore just nothing just not Xander wouldn't
have to *know* this anymore/

Would be even, maybe, good.  /you don't deserve 'good'/

/I *know*/

Except for the vampires.  That was the only thing that would fuck it up.

He needed -- they *needed* him to kill the vampires.

"I can use you," Giles had said.  And yeah.  Yes!  Maybe Giles could.
Maybe there was some way to make him harder, stronger, faster.  Make it
so he could kill *all* the vampires.  Fix this.  End this.  It was the
only thing that would be worth a damn to them.  And if he could make it
right --

he reached out, collected the four little talismans, and closed his fist
around them.

-- then maybe it would be okay.  For him to go.

For a second he was tempted to go and knock on Giles door, ask him to
get started *now*.  But no, he'd have to do this a little carefully.
Definitely want to damp down some of the eagerness about the 'use me til
I drop' riff because the last thing he wanted to do now was alert the
Voice of Reason.  And besides, if Giles was asleep, who was he to fuck
with that?

No.  He could wait until tomorrow.  They could all wait until  tomorrow.
There was a little time now, a little breathing space to step back and
really enjoy whatever coolness might be left in the world.  Because no
matter what tomorrow decided to throw at him, he could handle it -- he
wasn't going to have to take it for all *that* long.

A yawn hit him and Xander let it, stretched hard and long.  Then he
pushed away from the wall, closed the blinds, and shed his stiff,
sweat-soaked clothes to the floor. Crawled into the makeshift bedroll of
blankets and towels and pillows from the couch.

He stretched out in it, groaned as his shoulders hit the cool, hard
floor that the blankets didn't really soften.  In the not-quite dark
enough darkness, Kendra's bed loomed over him.

Kendraless.  He realized with some surprise that he could actually
consider sleeping in it tonight.  Hardly any pain at all.  But he could
wait now.  It would be all right.

*

The third time Spike heard the crack, crash and tinkle of glass breaking
followed by a scream and the 'whoompf' of something large igniting, he
pulled a pillow over his head and held it there.

For the first time in over a hundred years he found himself wishing that
he was human again, so he could suffocate.  Maybe if he was lucky a
piece of the decrepit factory ceiling would fall off with the next
explosion and pierce him right through the heart.

"Ahem..."  Or better still... "Don't you think you should *check* that?"
said The Voice of Cordelia from somewhere across the room.  Three
o'clock in the bloody afternoon and she was still up with the reading
light on, turning the pages of whichever bubble headed fashion magazine
she'd pulled off the ever growing pile.

"*You* fucking check it," said Spike.  "I've already seen enough
evolution in action for one decade."

"I went last time," Cordelia said.  Spike frowned, then lifted the
pillow and scowled out.  Cordelia was sitting *exactly* where she always
was, YM magazine in hand, flipping without looking up.  The room was a
bloody mess.  Literally.  Blood everywhere, not to mention bones and
decaying corpses, dead rats and an unreasonable number of potted palms.
Everywhere except in a neat -- no *pristine* circle of floor around
Cordelia.  Spike frowned.

"You did *not*," he said.  "You just got up and closed the fucking
drapes.  And why is your floor so bloody clean?"

Cordelia shot him an insufferable little smirk and Spike leapt up, his
face ridging-up out of pure irritation -- but before he could even
remind himself that killing the bitch would be a bad idea there came
another crack, crash, and tinkle, followed in rapid succession by a
second and a third and just as the first scream died into its whoompf,
there was a fourth.

The bloom of flaming vampires was enough to cast a shadow of
window-crossings through the drapes.

"Oh *shit*!"

Spike, already in mid-pounce hit the door first, opened it up and
skidded out onto the second floor catwalk that overlooked the factory
floor.  To see the horror --  hundreds of milling idiot vampires
climbing the stairs to the *third* floor catwalk where hundreds of other
vampires were leaping into the air, attempting to catch something
flitting.

"Ugh!" Cordelia squealed.  "Bats!"

And it was true.

They were hunting bats.

Bats who apparently surpassed them in both IQ and common sense. Even as
Spike watched, a vampire wearing a dress-suit and carrying an open
umbrella stepped over the catwalk rail and launched himself into the
air.  The umbrella slowed his fall not at all and he landed with a wet
thump on two other vampires who had apparently figured 'looking up' was
sufficient protection against falling bodies.

Worse yet, other vampires were simply wandering along the catwalk beside
the smashed windows.   The smashed curtainless windows with the
afternoon sun pouring through them.  The smell of singeing vampire
wafted gently through the air.  Occasional licks of flame peeked up from
over shoulders.  Spike didn't need a picture to imagine the progression
of events.

Nevertheless one formed in his head.  Christ!  They were *dead*.  Really
dead.  All it would take was one ignited vampire to jump down *into* the
factory and 'whoompf' -- there it was.

"You have to do something," Cordelia said, behind him.  Something about
her tone -- he turned to find Cordelia glaring at him, human-faced,
hands on hips.  Spike felt rage rising to mingle with the panic,

"*I* have to do something?  This is your fault."

"Oh *right*," Cordelia said, dripping sarcasm.  "I forgot it was my job
to watch the newbies every single *second* of the day because you were
busy doing the important work of getting drunk and starting bar fights."

"Oh yeah and *I* forgot how fucking Earth-shaking it was to know which
color lip-gloss cows are wearing in fucking *France*."  And he pretty
much heard the hollow boom of the lameness the instant it left his
mouth, sucking some of the fire out of him.  Cordelia just raised an
eyebrow and stared at him, disbelieving.

"You are just mental, aren't you?" she said.  "I don't know why --"

But whatever she was going to hurl at him died unsaid.

Her eyes widened.

Her mouth opened.

Spike registered the flash and whoompf of flame, looked up just in time
to see the smoldering newbie go up like a torch.  It screamed and
staggered, clearing a circle around itself on the catwalk. Other
vampires scrambled and pressed up against one another trying to get
away.

Which was good, Spike decided -- leaping up on the railing and swinging
himself up to the third floor catwalk -- because the backs and shoulders
of the jammed up vampires gave him a somewhat solid surface to  run
across.  Or at least a more familiar surface.  Not unlike the  punk
clubs he missed so damn much and then he was struggling a bit,  kicking
at hands that grabbed at his ankles and his coat, fanged mouths  opening
to bite.

Bogging him down and he could see the flamer had managed to ignite a
friend and Christ this was going to *hurt*--

Close enough now to feel the heat, smell the stench of burning undead
flesh -- shrugging off his coat as his boots connected flesh and bone
and *gameface*, felt the rush and grit his teeth and leapt.

The sunlight was a searing diamond wash across his eyes.  He felt heat
lick him gently, painlessly as he flew, coat in his hand and then --

Bam!

thudded hard against solid burning vampire.  They tumbled together, hit
the floor, Spike wrapping his coat around the fucking flaming mess and
slapping open handed at the flames.

Beating at them.

Fuck!  Flames, all around him.  Burning him.  He fucking hated fire.
*Hated* it and the damn thing was writhing under his knees and howling
and it stank and it was fucking *wrecking* his duster and he *hated*
this, *hated* fucking Sunnydale and the moron vampires and Drusilla
didn't even care and... and...

He became aware of silence.

Looked up.  Cordelia was standing over him, holding one of the big
plastic pitchers of water from the executive board room.  Behind her and
all around he could see, well, something like order.  The massive crush
of vampires seemed to have calmed, were heading back down the stairs
away from the carnage -- herded, apparently, by a handful of confident
seeming vampiresses in power suits.

Looking behind him he saw another handful of vamps putting up curtains
over the broken windows, chatting quietly as they twisted the fabric
into artsy little poufs at the top.  His gaze came back to Cordelia --
still impeccable from her pointy red shoes to the sleek, chestnut fall
of her hair -- and his eyes narrowed.

This wasn't good.  It really wasn't good and if Dru were here...   And
he didn't like the little twinges that thought gave him, didn't want --
no, didn't have *time* to think about what Dru was doing every day and
night down in the crypt with the little red-headed cunt and how much
worse than Prague this was going to be when it all fell apart and
Christ... he was going to do his best to never have to ask for help from
*her* and...

"What...?" he snarled at the amused little smirk on Cordelia's pretty
little face.  Cordelia shrugged.

"Your hair's on fire," she said, and emptied the pitcher on his head.

*

Willow pushed at the cool weight holding her down and shivered at the
brush of silk against her arm. It had become a familiar sensation over
the past several ... days?

She'd left a count of days as best she could, but she really wasn't
sure. Drusilla made everything different.

And it was OK, because it was only magic, and... and she was magic, too,
so she could figure it out. And she would. Just as soon as she was
outside again.

Because then she could find Oz, and make him better and fix her... her
mistake. And he'd hold her hands /bloody now scraped/ in his and smile
at her. 'Guess you're a good witch, after all,' he'd say and Willow
would come up with something clever in response and then they would go
back to Xander. Not Giles, Giles didn't understand, wouldn't ever
understand.

Not with that... warlock friend of his. Xander would forgive her when he
saw how much she could help. They wouldn't need Giles, then, or his
warlock. It would be just the three of them, and she *could* make Xander
feel better. Somehow...

Drusilla shifted above her, finally. Willow's legs weren't numb enough
to the brush of Drusilla's own. Smooth and soft for just a little, just
a few tiny millimeters until the cold hardness of death. It was so ugly
to be trapped like this, held under the arm of an awful living statue
that never, ever let go except to leave her all alone in the dark.

Drusilla's skin was the only light here, and drew Willow's eyes
accordingly. Beautiful. She could think the vampire was beautiful, it
didn't have to mean anything. She was, like someone out of a movie... a
really, really strange movie. Willow giggled to herself, despite
herself, and Drusilla sighed against her throat.

Made her shiver and her hands still remembered the round of Drusilla's
breast from when she'd held it, cupped so gentle-hard still. When she'd
blown the fire dust out from deep within, a whirl of crawling sand,
cinnamon flame on her lips, tongue.

The sounds Drusilla had made, hands tangled in Willow's tangles hard
enough to make her scalp bleed.  And Drusilla had begged for more, right
there, even as her skin blackened and bled and reeked a high animal
stink that made Willow heave and heave until she'd had to run to the
corner and heave for real.

She knew there had been blood there.

That spell had never come from any book, anywhere. There'd been only a
small hint of the... other power Drusilla let her call on. Just a
whisper across her soul and Willow hadn't been able to hold it back,
hadn't been able to stop herself from going back and marring the other
white, perfect breast.

And it wasn't as though this was bad, or wrong, because it was a
vampire. And she'd been imprisoned and Drusilla healed anyway, slow  and
with little panting huffs of sound. Not wrong, not wrong.

The only time Drusilla ever hurt Willow was when Willow wouldn't hurt
her. It *was* sick. It was *sick* and she'd read the books. She liked
psychology, saw it as an interesting piece of fiction to be applied to
her own life.  She knew...

Willow wasn't sure what she knew.

Last night, this morning, sometime sometime... Last night Willow hadn't
been able to move anymore. Scoured by the other power, buffeted by the
darkness and laid out over the crumbling bones of Mr. Arthur Horn, Or
Lorn. She'd had to feel it out with her fingers and the letters were
old.

Willow had been still and prayed this would be one of the times Drusilla
allowed her to rest without... without leaving her alone for being bad
and she hadn't.

Left.

Drusilla had cooed in her ear and promised her soon, soon and Willow had
remembered Oz, whose eyes were... hazel. Hazel and blue and green and
gold and she just didn't know and Drusilla had pushed and tore Willow's
clothes away and... and...

Dry-rasp demon tongue, not human, not right. Yes on her lips, and her
belly, and her nipples still hard from the spells, and her sex still wet
and soft.

Whispered against her thigh: "I can taste the magic in you, Willow..."

Willow shut her eyes and shook against the memory, and the truth --
she'd never moved except closer, even when her strength had started
coming back. There were so many things... and wonderful, beautiful Miss
Calendar at Hiland-Roberts and the way Willow couldn't forget her smile.

And Amy, the other witch -- why hadn't she gone to her? -- and even Miss
Sharon from first grade with her hair all brown and curly.

She had *wanted* this, somehow, and Drusilla had... Drusilla was a witch
and Drusilla had felt her coming. She had said it...

And said that Willow was so, so good. A good girl that deserved a treat.
Her body had been perfect again by then, and ready for the magic that
wasn't so much hers as... bought, somehow, and her hands, and tongue and
teeth and tears.

Oz.

She could reach Oz with the new power somehow, she knew it. All she had
to do was get out...

Willow pulled deep within herself, to the roiling pit within and without
her abdomen and felt the rich sweetness of the other power. Too much,
like pure chocolate or a thick, red syrup that seemed to take the place
of her bones, seemed to drip inside her from her bones, seemed to melt
her bones into slag and she poured all the power into her mouth. Raised
it up and then it *was* dripping. From her peeling-back gums, from the
stretched points of her teeth. It was even better to work spells on
herself, a changing only she could provide.

This one had a name somewhere, she knew. Something hard on the tongue
with consonants and raw runic power. It didn't matter. Where she was,
where the power was... there was no need for names in this.

Willow sank her teeth deep into the meat of Drusilla's arm and held on
as the venom shot to the dead heart like blood poisoning. Drusilla
screamed and bucked and nearly roared. And never once struck Willow
back.

And when the virulent red tracery of veins finally disappeared from
Drusilla's flesh, the vampire smiled sweetly. Kissed her sweetly, deep
and slow and painfully human.

"Let's go find your prezzie now..."

And Willow laughed and laughed all the way out into the blinding
moonlight, through the cemetery and beyond, Drusilla hissing the demons
that would have accosted them away. Her white knight.  Her white, white
lady, more brilliant than bone.

In the end, Drusilla did nothing more complex than follow Oz's scent,
and that was funny, too. Oh, richly funny to learn /buy/ all of those
spells, to tap into a power greater than anything she'd ever known.  How
had she ever thought herself powerful before?

 All she had to do was open herself further.  Much, much further.

All she had to do was surrender to the kinetic roil of it, less patient
than anything of the green Wiccan familiarity... and to do that was to
rival Hecate.

Terrible Hecate, who had frightened her before.

Never again, never fear.

A chance look and she saw Drusilla, another one, dancing furiously
around... her.   Willow was naked, hair matting into uneven locks, dirty
and bruised and bleeding from angry half-remembered wounds on her
ankles.

Willow paused in front of the shop window and smiled. Watched herself
run one hand up the rack of her ribs and down again.

Wild now. For you, Oz.

*

Ripper's couch, Ethan decided, could only be comfortably slept on by
someone with the build of Quasimodo.  With a mutter of, "Bloody hell,"
he rolled onto his other side and tried to find a comfortable position.

Impossible.  Shit.  If Ripper was any sort of a host he would have
offered to share his bed.  It wasn't as if *that* would have been
anything new and different.  Or a bloody hardship for Ripper, judging by
the way he sometimes actually *looked* at Ethan with that old I'm going
to slam you up against the wall and -- Well.  Best not to dwell on that
thought with the boy prone to wandering when he should be sleeping.
Ripper would have his balls if darling Xander caught him doing anything
unseemly.

Xander.  Now there was an odd boy.  Almost shades of the old Ripper if
you could overlook the brooding, 'woe is me' attitude.  He had the
ability to be quite the smart-ass little prick when he wanted to be,
after you  jollied him out of his mopes, of course.  Such a curious lad,
too.

He'd been asking questions in a charming, trying-to-be-subtle way, about
Ethan and where he'd learned his craft.  Of course he couldn't answer
those questions.  If Ripper wanted the lad to know the arts, he'd have
taught him.  And Ethan understood quite well, thank you very much, that
Xander was hands off, do not touch and do not even think about playing
any of the games *they'd* enjoyed so much in their youth.

It was amusing to ponder, however, just what the lad might do to get his
answers, or what Ripper might do in response.  At the very least it was
a bit of a kick to make Ripper worry, just the slightest, that all of
those questions might someday be answered.

What Ethan wanted to know, was why Xander had this sudden, burning
interest in the black arts.  He had no innate talent, nothing was
calling him or anything.  One quick look had been enough to confirm that
little fact.  So.  A puzzle.

Ethan twisted onto his back and idly caressed a bruise on his rib cage.
Nasty little sodding fuckers tonight.  It had been fun, however, to see
Ripper back in action, a cruel little smile on his mouth and his every
move full of deadly grace.  Oh and *that* brought back memories.  He
prodded a little at the bruise, smiled a bit at the dull ache and poked
harder.  And *that* brought back memories, too.

He was still there, his Ripper was.  Somewhere beneath that fussy,
cautious, pedantic facade of 'Giles,' his Ripper lurked.  Ethan let out
a soft, self-deprecating laugh.  Oh, and he'd had *such* plans to lure
Ripper out and play -- now sadly gone awry. Just for a bit, just a
quick, bittersweet taste of the old days and he would have been on his
way until the next time. Instead, here he was.

Foolish to stay, really.  Any fool could see there was no point, no
hope.  But then he'd turned into a proper dolt the minute he'd heard
Ripper's voice asking him to come to him.  Of course he wasn't so far
gone that he imagined Ripper would have ever *needed* him unless the
situation was a right and proper cock-up.  And of course *he* had always
been the needy one.  He was the one who kept coming back, wasn't he?

He flopped over onto his stomach and that was a mistake.  The pillow
still smelled faintly of Ripper, and his cock, already half hard,
immediately sat up and took notice.  Ethan inhaled, pushed into the
cushions and let out a low moan of frustration.  Unfair.  It was fucking
bloody unfair.  If he had any backbone at all he'd go up the stairs,
into Ripper's bedroom and *push* until Ripper's eyes glittered and his
mouth became cruel and he forgot all about that bloody boy and --

Fucking hell.

It might work.  Ethan gave another twist of his hips and curled a hand
over his bruise, pushed with the heel of his palm until he almost
squirmed at the mix of pleasure and pain.  It might work, he thought
again, but there would be the inevitable ugly scene afterward and even
Ripper's need might not allow him to let Ethan stay.  And while it might
even be worth it, he knew that if he left there wouldn't be a chance for
a next time.  Because Ripper, stupid, honorable Ripper was going to
stay.  No matter what and damn the fucking torpedoes.

So.  He was going to behave.  Was going to *try* to behave.  Oh, but it
was *so* hard when his nature was to just let everything happen the way
it wanted to, screw the consequences and revel in the resulting chaos.
Still half luxuriously, half painfully rocking into the sofa, he closed
his eyes and idly pondered how badly he wanted to stay.

Pretty badly, he eventually decided.  But still, he'd never done well
with self-denial.  He rolled onto his back and lightly ran a caressing
finger over his painfully erect flesh.  For a moment he considered just
taking care of business right here.  Let the boy come out and see.  As
he idly touched his cock, he thought, even better, let Ripper wake up
and come down for a cup of tea...

He'd stop on the bottom step, stare at Ethan and maybe, maybe he'd
actually step forward.  Touch him.  Kiss him and bite him and let him,
let him -- a creak from upstairs and he paused, frozen with
anticipation.

After a moment of silence, Ethan inhaled another lung of faint Ripper
scent and abruptly thought, no.  No.

Not here.  Not with Ripper safe in his bed and so far away.  He rolled
off the couch, grabbed a robe and carelessly pulled it on as he walked
up the stairs, leaving it unbelted.  If he was reduced to this joyless,
solitary pleasure, he was going to be as close to Ripper as possible.
Even if the bloody bathroom wall was between them.  And he *would* leave
the stain there for Ripper, or the boy to find tomorrow.  He was really
quite beyond caring what they thought.  And if made them uncomfortable,
so much the better.

He'd never done well with suffering alone.

Ethan reached the top of the stairs, his hand still working his cock in
half gentle, half angry motions.  Just as he turned the dark corner to
the bathroom, he ran smack into a hard male body and knew in a split
second that it was most definitely *not* the boy.

Ripper's hands settled on his shoulders and steadied him.  "Ethan," and
oh, that deliciously sleepy voice, all gruff and raspy, "what are you
doing?"

In answer, he leaned closer, let Ripper feel his hand moving and wanted
to just howl at the way his eyes turned even darker in the dim light,
how Ripper's breath paused before he inhaled.  And opened his mouth to
speak, damn him.

Not wanting to hear it, Ethan *pushed* until Ripper's back hit the wall
and he breathed, "Just don't say it, all right?  Don't tell me to stop,
to fucking behave.  Just kiss me."

And before Ripper could say anything, yea or nay, Ethan pushed again
with his hips and took ruthless advantage of Ripper's gasp.  Yes,  oh
fuck, yes, he thought deliriously when Ripper's lips parted and let his
tongue sweep in.  When the hands on his shoulders tightened but didn't
push him away, he moaned, let go of his cock and daringly reached out
and yes.  Oh Ripper.

And that was all it took.  One kiss, one touch of Ripper's cock and he
was shuddering, gasping opened mouthed, breathing in Ripper's sub
audible growl and coming in helpless, endless pleasure.

Ripper held him until his shudders subsided, his hands almost gentle.
Ethan felt a whisper of movement on his hair and bemusedly wondered if
it was a kiss.  "Ripper," he murmured, feeling disgustingly tender.

He pulled back and gave Ripper a slow, soft smile and caressed the still
hard cock in his hand.  "Let me," he began and leaned forward again when
Ripper shook his head and gently pushed him back with a look of regret
and finality.

"No," he said simply.

No?  His lips parted on a question and then he heard the quiet snick of
a door close downstairs and saw the flushed mix of lust, anger and
embarrassment on the other man's face.

Oh, right.  He didn't *need* to ask why.  The boy.

Even so, he heard himself say almost pleadingly, "Ripper," then let the
rest of it die when bloody implacable *Giles* shook his head and turned
back to his own room, shutting the door behind him.  Shutting him out.

Fine.  Ethan lifted his chin and directed a narrowed eyed glare at
Ripper's door.  Fucking, sodding *fine*.  Go back to your room, he
thought, reeking of sex, of *me*, and jerk off.  I dare you, you
uptight, selfish little prat.  And when you wake up in the morning,
we'll just pretend this little unpleasant little interlude never
happened.  All of us.

He went back down the stairs and paused by Xander's door, touching the
wood lightly.

And as for you, he mused, something is going to have to be done about
you.

*

Night's hunt done, full of meat and warm in his den, he drowses and
dreams.

Good dreams first.   Moon-dreams.  The hunt, the scrabble and scent of
prey, the chase, the kill.  Firm flesh between his jaws, the snap of
bone, the hot, fierce gush of blood -- thick and salt against his
tongue.  Wild cries and carrion on the wind and cool water.  But then it
changes.

The moon slides down behind the world and he can feel, even in his
sleep, the rising flame. Flame that breaks the sky open, fills the world
with pain and light and bad dreams come.

Man-dreams.  Man-thing in his head, soothing, gentling.  Fearing him.
Trying to pull him up to teeter on his two back legs, to skin him pink
and helpless as a newborn pup, dull his eyes,  his claws, his teeth.
Man-thing mumbling wordsounds that hurt him, twist through his bones: a
buzzing sound like bees -- ozzzzzz --

and birds -- willowwillow.  He feels the tug and pull to wakefulness and
fights it --twitches, whines himself awake anyway.  Alone in his dark,
warm bed he shifts and feels the man-thing just under his skin.

Not right!  It prickles at his neck hairs and he growls low, shows his
teeth to the burrow's darkness.  After a time the man-thing slinks away.

Not gone, just hiding but nothing he does now will make it go farther.
He whuffs once more to make sure and then gives himself a stretch, a
sleepy shake.  Paws a little at his flattened bed and sniffs the air--

 -- and suddenly awake!  Alert!  Bristles rising, ears flattening, lips
peeled back at danger.  Cold, death danger.  Whispers on the wind.
Whispers catching at his fur, his ears.  Like burrs.  Like clouds of
biting flies.  Like little claws.  Catch and prickle in his flesh and he
shivershudders, shakes himself free and bounds --

Out into the grey and cold.  Wet rolling fog that wraps around him, over
him. He whines, running fast and flat out, low to the ground trying to
get away from it but fog gets in his nose, his eyes.  Blind, he skids on
unseen leaves, shoulderscrapes a tree and stops.

Panting.  Sniffs the air -- nothing, nothing.  Old cold death but old
cold death is all around him, in the ground.  He listens. Hears nothing,
no birds, no squirrels.   Just the fog, whispering.  Whispering all
around him.  Here!  Here!  Here!

Not right!  Not right!  He jumps and turns and turns to keep his muzzle
to the wind and where the whispers come from.  Close and far away and
close again.  Whispers like sparks from a fire in his fur. Like ants.
Icy raindrops, pricking.  He shakes his head again and whuffs and
whines.  Man-thing shivering under his skin, tugging at him, and he
can't resist it this time, rises up on hind legs, bats at the fog with
helpless paws.

The fog parts and there!  There!  Quicklight glimpse of woman-shapes.
Smells.  One cold and dead.  Darkling flesh that makes him whine deep in
his throat.  The other -- human.  Pink and weak and *known*.  He knows
that smell.  Her smell.  Wordsounds banging at his head -- willow willow
-- and he yips and shakes at them again and again.

And the fog up over his head again, and suddenly it's full of biting,
stinging, pricking hooking pain and bright moonsilver light that burns
and burns.  He screams and curls in on himself.  Feels the man-thing in
him struggle and wraps himself around it hard and tight.   And something
changes in the air.  Gets quiet.  So still.  Pound of his own heartbeat
on the ground and he can smell death coming nearer.

Wordsounds they make and his lips curl and he clutches himself and
growls and growls but they don't stop. The dead one.  The one he--

Knows.

And they are there, right there and whispering over him and suddenly
he's rising, rising like fog and he whimpers at the sick roil of it but
he can't uncurl.  Bones aching, skin prickling, wrapped tight around the
man-thing and it's all he can do to squint out through his one slitted
eye.

Sees --  pain.  Grey sky and light.  Bars and bands of bright silver
light criss cross around him, over him, under him.  A net of moonsilver
bright pain and the sour acid spunk of silver in his mouth and he rolls
and moans his one eye up and sees her.  Wild red tangle fur and his jaws
ground closed but there's a howl rising inside him. Wolf howl.  Man
howl.

--willowwillowwill--

And no matter what he does, the howl goes on as he is carried back into
the dark.

*

To be honest, Cordelia had never devoted any amount of time to wondering
what life as a vampire would be like.  That particular pursuit was for
geeky boys who probably would never ever have a date their entire
acne-filled lives.

Still, she had seen movies and had *some* minor expectations. She looked
down at the snarling beast in its cage and wrinkled her nose.  This
certainly met none of them.

"A bloody fucking werewolf," Spike said from next to her.  "Can you
believe it?"

"After being dumped for Willow Rosenberg I can believe anything," she
said acidly.

"That's her name, then?  The dirty little thing who wanted the wolf?"

"That dirty little thing is in *our* bed."

Spike lit a cigarette and took a deliberate puff before saying, "Dru'll
have her cleaned up.  She hates sleeping on dirty sheets.  Says it
chafes."

"How you can you be so calm?  Doesn't it bother you that she fucks you
then finds another toy to play with?"

"Not as much as it does you, apparently."

Cordelia raised an eyebrow and sweetly said, "Oh, you drink too much and
get into fights every night because this is par for the course?"

He grimaced and viciously stubbed out his cigarette.  "All right, it
bothers me.  You were one thing.  At least you were like us, but her..."
His voice trailed off as he made a noise of disgust.  "She gives me the
fucking willies."

And here Cordelia could only emphatically agree.  Willow, this new and
Dru improved version of Willow, looked like one of those people her
human self had always pretended not to see when she'd happened to be in
the seedier areas of Sunnydale.  "She never used to be like that, you
know.  Of course, I didn't know her very well, but I seem to recall her
being sort of a mousy little thing."

"Yeah, well this mouse has teeth."

For a moment they stood silently and watched as one of the younger
vampires tried to throw a steak into the cage, miss and daringly get too
close to the cage in retrieving it.

"He's going to lose an arm," Cordelia said carelessly.

"Not one of yours, then?"

"Duh!  He's *ugly*."

"You did get the pretty ones, now that you mention it.  Funny, that."
His voice held a note just on the suspicious side of idle curiosity.

"There is nothing funny about being attractive," she sniffed.  "It takes
work.  Something you, Mr. Retro Punk, might want to consider."

"Yeah.  I can see that from the way you and your lot are always huddled
together.  Makeover parties?"

She tossed her head.  Let him think that.  The longer he bought the
brainless image she'd so carefully cultivated the better.  Giving him a
petulant look, she snapped, "Do you see anything better to do around
here?"

The careless vampire howled and staggered back from the cage.  Well,
what do you know.  She'd been right about the arm.  The others fell on
him, pressing eager faces into his blood soaked shoulder and then piling
on top until he disappeared from view.

"Ugh."  Cordelia grimaced.  "That floor was just cleaned.  I don't know
why we have to have that thing inside.  Why not have a kennel in the
back or, here's a thought, not have it at all?"

"Because the mousy cunt wants it here," Spike pointed out sourly.

And it really didn't need to be said aloud that, for the moment, what the
mousy cunt wanted, the mousy cunt got.

Funny how that just plain irked her, Cordelia thought.  It wasn't as if
she *liked* being Drusilla's little toy, not always.  But part of her
still craved to be the recipient of that insanely focused regard, to
feel like she was a *part* of something.  Even if it was sick and
somewhat deranged.

She looked over at Spike, who was glumly smoking again. Apparently he
felt the same way. Maybe...

"I don't suppose there's anything we could do?"

Spike tilted his head back and gave her a considering look.  "Dru's
funny about her pets," he finally said slowly, casually.  "She gets
attached pretty fast, but does tend to lose interest once they die."

"How interesting."

"Yes," he agreed.  "You'll notice how quickly she forgot you."

"You're just all kinds of bitter, aren't you?"

"Not me, ducks.  I was with Dru long before you were even soiling your
nappies.  I expect I'll still be with her when you're just a pile of
well dressed dust."  He smiled when he said it, a meaningless stretch of
his lips.

"Gosh," she remarked sarcastically. "Threaten much?"

"Naw.  Look, I don't like you."  He leaned forward, game face on and
loomed over her.  "And I fucking well know you're up to something, so I
don't trust you."

Her own face transformed, Cordelia stood on tip toe and said through a
false smile, "I am so hurt."

"There you are, pets."

Startled, Cordelia broke off the impromptu stare down and saw Dru at the
end of the cat walk, Willow at her side.

Spike, practically radiating over eager cheerfulness, murmured, "Hallo,
luv."

"I need you two to do something for me," Drusilla said slowly.

Cordelia's gaze flickered from Dru to Spike to Willow and she licked her
lips.  Okay.  So maybe it wasn't exactly what she wanted but it was a
start.  *Anything* to make the time pass a little faster.

She stepped forward, smiling and stopped cold when Drusilla continued,
"Willow's puppy needs food.  And I don't want him eating the children."

Spike stepped forward and ground out, "What?  You want us to make a
kibble run?"

"Yes, pet.  Please.  For Mummy?"  And with a murmur and a stroke of
Willow's hair, she turned and left them, obviously assuming they would
obey.

Spike gaped at her retreating back before yelling, "Right!  I do not
fucking believe this.  Babysitting is one thing.   Fucking caging a
werewolf, okay, yeah, sure, bit of a lark, that, but I draw the line at
dog food!"  When Drusilla didn't even pause, Spike turned his glare at
Cordelia.

"Don't even look at me.  I'm not going."

"Well neither am I."

"Good."

"Fine," she snapped back.

He pulled out another cigarette and almost snapped the tip off when he
closed his lighter.  "I mean it.  I'm not going."

"She'll be pissed."
"Let her be pissed for a bloody change."  He moodily smoked and scowled
at the cage below.  "Sodding thing can starve to death for all I care."

And Cordelia, with skills honed by years of the breaking down and
reforming of cliques at her whim, knew an opening when she heard one.
"She doesn't appreciate you," she said sympathetically.

He rolled his eyes.  "Don't you try that crap on me.  I may be pissed
at Dru now, but it'll pass.  Look, if you want to make mischief,
go play with the witch.  I'm going to go get the fucking kibble."

Well.  Fine.  She didn't get to be Homecoming Queen by giving up.
"Okay.  I'll go with you."  She assumed a virtuous air and continued,
"She did say both of us, remember?"

Giving her a look of disbelief, Spike said, "You're a piranha, aren't
you?"

Cordelia merely smiled, making sure to bare her teeth. "Shall we?"

*

Willow snatched her hand back again. It wasn't that the wolf was
snapping at her -- it wasn't capable of more than a low, closed-mouth
growl with both her and Drusilla holding on to it -- but it didn't seem
right to touch it. This *thing* had swallowed her Oz and taken all her
peace and /human/ away.

Oz was in there, somewhere, though. She could feel him, deep and deep
and... and *calling* her.

She was moving through the straining vampires who pulled the cage along
on a cart before she was fully aware she was doing so.

The wolf cocked an eye at her, blacker than the night and gleaming wet,
and the vampires, Drusilla's vampires she was... was *consorting* with
vampires

/yes do/

and she couldn't seem to remember

/the power we go to power yes Willow/

why her hair brushed against her bare breasts, why the vampires eyed her
hungrily

/we love you so much/

then flinched away when she went to touch them, study them with the

/true it's the one the REAL/

power she now had.

And Willow laughed then, because she *could* remember, and the
whispering powers laughed with her, off-time and discordant because they
*knew* she could remember the way the last one she'd played with had run
screaming into the sun.

The wolf whimpered, growled again as one of the vampires stumbled enough
to jar the cart. Drusilla was coming to her. Willow was ready, though.
She'd knotted a twist of Drusilla's hair through her own. Her mouth
remembered the taste

/more/

of Drusilla's  blood, secreted in the food she'd had to, *had* to eat.

Oz.

/tame the wolf make him yours/

Oz was here now, and she would find him, *have* him, if she had to... if
she had to give Drusilla whatever she wanted.

Sharp, sharp nails down the center of her chest, over the narrowing
swell of her hip, and then Drusilla was gathering her close and the
chill eased the welts and she knew that dance, knew deep, deep that the
pattern of steps had power, that the whole was an act of Chaos lords
far, far older than anything Willow knew.

Drusilla kissed her as she danced, a dazzling parody of softness. A
mother's desperate feeding that made the voices surge in ecstasy, that
made her body soft and needy.

And beneath it all was the hum, the not-whisper hum of power pulsing
alive and independent of any mortal's control. Power they were following

/everything/

right back

/everything you need love you/

to the Hellmouth. Willow bit Drusilla's ear hard, ground her teeth until
she felt flesh tear and Drusilla push against her, rub cool silk over
and over her nipples.

Everything she needed was at the Hellmouth.

*

Spike had just about reached the end of his tolerance.  Playthings were
one thing.  That he could understand.  Wasn't happy about, mind you, but
he did understand.  He liked the occasional new piece of ass as well.
But, *shit*.  He'd never been away from Dru's bed for so long.

Not just away from it -- *banned* from it.

He'd tried everything, even being nice to the little red haired bitch.
How was he to know she wouldn't think feeding the wolf a kitten was
funny?  And Dru wouldn't even talk to him after that, was fixated on
*her* instead. He should've stuck with the bloody kibble, and had
he really been that optimistic just a few weeks ago?

They spent all their time together, whispering in their own language.

Planning, Dru had said.  Listening.

And even that might be okay.  The witch was mortal.  She was going to
die eventually or else be forgotten when Dru moved on to some other
toy.  He could amuse himself for a decade or two and just wait.  But
this...

His hands clenched as Dru embraced the girl, tilted her head, offered
her neck and let the girl *bite* her.

Oh yeah, he knew what they were doing in his bed, had heard Dru's cries
of ecstasy and pain, fuck, had smelled the blood.  *Seeing* the girl
damn near rip Dru's ear off was another thing.

"Dru," he growled.  "Drusilla."

She ignored him, gently rubbed against the girl then stiffened, her
dreamy eyes suddenly dark and wide and aware.

"Did you feel that?"  She pulled back and stared into the girl's eyes.
"Did you hear that, pet?"

The girl, her mouth stained with blood, licked her lips, nodded and
whispered, "Here.  It's all here."

And suddenly Spike could feel it, a low throb of something all around
him, pulsing under feet, saw it reflected in the girl's mad, dark eyes.
It felt *bad*.

"Drusilla," he tried again.

She blinked and seemed to notice him for the first time.  "Spike?"

/Yeah, luv, Spike.  Remember me?/  "Yes, Dru?"

"I think you need to go play now.  Because the stars are going to fall
and the moon is going to rise and I shall be very busy."  She smoothed
back a lock of Willow's hair, smiled and murmured, "Very busy."

Well, then.  Fuck this for a game of silly buggers.  "Fine," he bit out.

He looked over his shoulder at Cordelia, surrounded by her little clones
and snarled, "You coming, then?"

*

The writing on the page in front of him blurred and wavered and Xander
had to stop reading and pinch the bridge of his nose.  It wasn't just
fatigue -- though he was pretty damned tired.  There was something
about reading old stuff about magic that made his brain hurt.  At least
he was pretty sure this book was in English.  Most of them weren't,
and sometimes the writing was so fancy-shmancy that he couldn't
really tell until he'd dragged his gaze over the letters a few dozen
times.

Still it was the only way.  It wasn't like he could just ask outright.
Or, that is to say he *had* asked Giles if there was something
magic they could do to him to make him faster, stronger, better and
Giles had thought for a second and looked up from whatever he'd been
reading --

-- and blushed --

-- and said: 'No.'

Which was so obviously a lie he didn't actually need Ethan to almost
jump in with the start of something that was not 'no' and then abruptly
close his mouth at Giles' glare and give a little smiling shrug.
Although it gave him some hope.

But Ethan wouldn't spill, just looked at Xander all innocent and "No,
no.  I bow to the knowledge of the Watcher.  There must be no such
thing." and so much enjoying fucking with his head that Xander wanted to
kick him.

That thought made him smile a little.  He could definitely do Ethan some
damage.  Of course, he wouldn't.  Not now.  Not after he'd seen... well,
he'd figured it out about the sexual tension thing they had going on. He
wasn't entirely Idiot Boy.  But then he'd seen them on the stairs and
that look on Giles face as he looked down at the top of Ethan's head.
Yeah, well.   He guessed no one really had much choice about who they
fell in love with.  So, no damage to Mr. Rayne.

Who actually looked up from the sofa where he sat running coins across
his knuckles, as though he'd heard something when Xander thought his
name.  Very creepy.  Didn't look at Xander though.  Looked at Giles,
doing warm ups and passes with a big old battleaxe in the cleared out,
high-ceilinged center of the living room. Two bladed axe.  Big sucker.

Yeah, Giles was looking pretty manly with his arm muscles flexing and
the big, black, mean looking tatt the t-shirt revealed on his forearm.
Giles with a tattoo... and Xander found himself watching it move, kind
of mesmerized by the swing and sway and the sound the axe made.  And
then he tore his gaze away and went back to the book.

Just because they wouldn't tell him, didn't mean he was going to give
up.  Even if it meant permanently crossed eyes and a headful of Latin
words that tickled on the edge of making sense and wouldn't let him
sleep.  And okay, BFD on the sleep.  He didn't miss his dreams and
*fuck* he'd thought that this book was in English, dammit and it mostly
was except for a big fat pile of Latin italic-ing up at him from the
middle of the page.

It would be easy if he could just *ask* them.  But of course if it *was*
the spell or item or whatever that he was looking for they wouldn't tell
him.  Might even take the books away, hide the good ones.  If they
hadn't already.  If the good ones happened to be in English, which they
probably weren't or Giles would have maybe balked at the idea of him
looking up signs and portents, which was what he'd said he was doing.

But neither of them had tried to stop him, or offered to help or even
seemed particularly interested.  Probably because they felt pretty clear
on the concept of them all being fucked, he guessed.  Giles had just
shrugged.  Ethan just looked -- whatever it was -- *arch*.  Ethan-y. And
Xander had found the little Latin/English dictionary in the dust behind
one of the huger tomes and gone to work anyway.

He pulled the little battered paperback out of his pocket and started
looking up the words on the page in front of him.  By the time he was
finished, Giles was doing stretches on the living room rug and Xander's
heart was pounding a little.  Not too much.  He could definitely be
wrong.  Definitely probably be wrong.  Almost certainly.  All he had was
basic root words: 'Hell demon army blood ashes two witches dance ice
fire wolf world end.'   And what might be a date:_Equinox.  Dark of the
Moon.  And there had been a full moon last week.  There wouldn't be next
week.  And right, kind of a neat coincidence but--
"Giles..."

"What is it, Xander,"

"Could you take a look at something?"  Giles seemed to think about it
for a minute.  He had his hands crossed, holding the hem of his sweaty
t-shirt like he was about to take it off and his face was flushed and
shiny with sweat.  But all he said was:

"All right."  And came and read over Xander's shoulder.  For about a
second and a half.  Then straightened.

"So?" Xander said.

"So what?" Giles asked.

"Did you actually even read it?  I mean, doesn't it sound like what's
going on around here?"

"Oh yes," said Giles.  "It probably is."

"And doesn't it say that the Hellmouth's going to open?  The world is
going to end? "

"Yes," said Giles.  "Next September possibly.  Or perhaps next week."
Xander looked up at Giles, tried to read something behind the
raised-eyebrows casualness of Giles' expression.  Couldn't.  Gave up and
turned to Ethan to find he wasn't even paying attention to the
conversation -- his eyes intent on his own sleight of hand.

"So what does it say?  Don't they usually tell us what we're supposed to
do to stop it?"  Giles actually looked at him then, the blank expression
giving way to the soft, sad look that Xander recognized as being full of
Kendra and Buffy and all that they had lost.  His throat closed up and
he felt the cold creeping back into his chest.  Because he suddenly, he
*knew*...

And Giles was telling him anyway, soft and gentle:

"It does, Xander.  It tells us what we need to stop it.  We just don't
..."  And *fuck* he didn't need to *hear* it, didn't need to hear again
and again and again how totally fucking useless he was and always would
be...  And Xander pushed himself away from the desk and stood up so
abruptly Giles flinched.  It felt cold inside him.  Cold and furious and
wild.

"Well, fine, hooray for the good guys," Xander said, sarcasm making his
smile sharp enough to hurt.  "So, *I'm* up for patrol now and a good
kick in the teeth.  How about you guys -- everybody in?"

*

For once, Ethan patrolled silently.  Xander's mood, generally grim
anyway, was especially ugly tonight, making him no fun at all.  And as
for Ripper, well. They hadn't really spoken more then a few words since
the other night.  No doubt he'd mentally filed that away as An
Unfortunate Incident Of Which We Shall Never Speak.

This was simultaneously just fine and terribly irksome to Ethan.  It was
like having an open wound. He knew he should leave it alone, let it
heal, but wanted to pick at it until one or both of them bled.

And the thought of Ripper and blood did nothing to improve his already
foul mood, just made him harder and angrier and more prone to say or do
something regrettable.

He grimaced and walked ahead a little.  So.  Company manners and just do
without. He could do that, had done it, in fact for a very long time.
And of course, he mightn't have to wait very long.  Assuming they lived
through whatever the hell was coming.

Amongst the other things coming as well.  He *knew* Ripper was having
the same dreams and that he was fully aware of Phillip and Dierdre's
deaths.  That Ripper hadn't chosen to discuss this meant he fully
expected to not be alive once Eyghon tracked them down.

It was faintly cheering to note there wasn't much a pleasure-demon could
do with a rotting carcass or two.  Not for long anyway.  But then, Ethan
had no intention of either of them being in that state.  Not just yet,
anyway.  Not if he could prevent it.  And it was so lovely to think the
boy had given him the answer to all of the puzzles.

Xander.  His own personal Rosetta stone.  But with a few extra markings,
courtesy of Ethan.  And all would be well.

He'd have to pick his time carefully, however.  Ripper slept lightly and
the process hurt.  He cupped his inner elbow and smile-winced at the
memory, then just plain smiled at the memory of after.

Smoke and incense and wild, giddy laughter.  The air full of Dierdre's
cries as Phillip pounded into her, and the softer, wet sounds of Tom
sucking Randall's cock.  And Ripper, *his* Ripper, wild and
unrestrained, looking at him and growling, "Come here.  Now." Being
shoved to his knees, his hair held in a hard, careless grip and Ripper
fucking his mouth and still *looking* at him as if he was the only one
there, the only thing that mattered.

Then fucking him, hard and fast and rough, like he was a slut, a toy, a
thing, and biting him, marking him as Ripper's for tonight but not
knowing it was for always because his hands had stroked him so sweetly
and held him so close like he was something needed.  Cherished.

And fuck it all, he would have that back.  No matter who or what had to
be sacrificed along the way.

*

Down another street and Cordelia submerged herself in the middle of her
best and brightest, but not even their clean, well-kept Armani-ness was
enough to salve her mood.

Blown off by Drusilla *again*, and this time through Spike. Dear, sweet,
*beloved* Spike whose own pack of self-styled 'roughboys' were
constantly shedding dirt and desperate lack of style all over the place.
Bad enough to be thrown over for Miss Fleabag 1998, worse to have the
Perpetual Wuss Boy bear the news.

Roughboys. More like rough trade.

As far as Cordelia was concerned, anybody who wore as much dead cow as
*those* people should probably just admit the truth and get over
themselves. Buy a Pride Flag, adopt a Nicaraguan crack baby and put the
cow *down*.

But no, people like Spike never caught a clue, not really.

The man himself tipped her a mocking wink, though it could've just been
a squint from all that smoke.

And the nasty truth was that they *were* in the same boat. No Dru, no
bearings, nothing to do. No Dru. And Cordelia would rather make that
fucking slayer wannabe *Xander* her undeath-long companion than have sex
with Spike without a... buffer. He was good at what he did, and
Cordelia didn't think she could stand to let him *know* that anymore
than she already had.

Her children had occasional moments of interest, and their worship was
flattering, but Cordelia had finer tastes.

She wanted power with her sex, and Spike made her teeth itch, and the
Master

/wave of heat, want please don't please/

was *dead* and her own pet witch Amy had no decent ideas how to fix that
and... Drusilla had forgotten her fucking *name* --

And then, tacky-neon gleam in the dimness: The Bronze.

Cordelia caught Spike's eye again, despite herself. The Bronze was
milling, full of mortals trying to forget their losses and too stupid to
stay in at night. Cordelia could feel her children's hunger and
excitement, ratcheting her own higher and higher.

Spike grinned at her, made an after-you gesture.

Cordelia supposed even overgrown leatherboys could have good ideas, now
and again.

*
This, Giles decided, was pointless.  An hour of patrolling and nothing,
not even in the usual hot spots.  As tired as he was, he should be glad
for a dull evening.  Xander, while he nearly vibrated with the need to
kill something, was not in any state to fight.  He was too filled with
anger and obvious self loathing to keep his head. Giles looked at him
and simply ached.

Too young to be so heartbroken.  So convinced that everything could be
fixed if they just tried hard enough, if *he* just tried hard enough.
Telling him there *was* no solution had been like kicking a small puppy,
almost harder than turning away -- and no.  No.  He wasn't going to
rehash that particular bit of business.

If he was going to think about all of his myriad failures, it was best
to stick with the most recent, not the oldest.

And there were so many, weren't there?  He could even leave his failure
as a Watcher alone for the moment, because honestly, those particular
lapses could fill a bloody book.  He thought of the others, the ones
that might even be worse.  Angel had already been damned, of course.
But even knowing that didn't make him feel any better.

And Cordelia.  Pretty, selfish, shallow Cordelia had never done
anything spiteful enough to deserve her current fate.

Grimly pushing on, he thought of Willow next, set aside the fury he
still felt and allowed himself -- forced himself to admit for the first
time that it was his fault.  If he hadn't been so wrapped up in grief,
in the need to have his bloody revenge he would have seen...
everything.  Too much power, not enough training.  And also too young,
far too young to handle any of what he'd asked of her.

No.  He would be honest with himself:  Demanded of her and
expected of her.

Which led to Oz and then Kendra and, inevitably, to back to Xander.

Who prowled beside him, lips compressed with anger and frustration,
determinedly *not* looking at Giles.

Giles had a sudden, horrid vision of Xander sneaking away some night,
finding a nest and wading in with a joyfully maniacal smile on his face,
one that never faded even as he was overwhelmed, pulled down and
slaughtered.

For the first time, Giles was glad of the dreams that made sleep
something to be avoided.

If he could hear Ethan stirring in the middle of the night, he should be
able to hear if Xander attempted to sneak out.

Of course it would stand to reason Ethan was dreaming as well, having
the same nightmare vision of death and sex and blood and damn it, he
was not going to be able to avoid thinking about this.

Obviously Ethan was plagued with the same dreams.  Just as obvious why
they were not discussed.  Aside from the fact that there was, indeed,
nothing to say, nothing to do, Ethan was determinedly avoiding speaking
to him as much as possible.

A small, nasty part of him sardonically observed that even Ethan
appeared to have some pride.  And that was unfair, was unbelievably
unfair.

And just that simple admission brought it all back, the *look* on
Ethan's face, the way he'd just melted against Giles in total and
complete surrender as if he'd been holding himself so tightly for so
long that it only took one touch to shatter him.  His touch.

And he'd refused.

For good reasons, valid reasons.  Not just because of Xander, as he knew
Ethan assumed.  It went beyond hurting the boy, or exposing him to his
own weaknesses.  It was more, no, almost entirely, about being weak,
about reverting back to who he used to be.  Used to be, he thought
again, trying to ignore how easily he'd briefly reverted to his former
self in the wake of Buffy's death.

If Ethan had shown up then, Giles thought with a shudder of mixed
revulsion and longing, things might now be quite different.
But Ethan hadn't and Giles had made his choices and there was no going
back.  This was, he thought again, pointless.  He wasn't going to
change. Ethan *never* changed, just became more himself.  And Xander
needed him. The town, what was left, needed him.  And he, he needed to
follow this through.  To do what he could, even though he knew it
wouldn't be, in the end, enough.

So, he prowled with his silent companions through the quiet streets and
ached for both of them and a little for himself, then tried to put the
extraneous, fruitless emotion out of his mind.  Instead, he
concentrated, listening for their prey and worried when they didn't find
any.

There was something in the air, something that buzzed and hummed at the
back of his mind.  It was only when they rounded the corner by the
Bronze that he realized what it was.  Not a buzz, not a hum. The sound
of screams muffled by brick and the low, driving beat of music.

*

Holding Willow's hand, Dru stepped over a crack on the broken floor then
paused.

There was something.  Not a feeling, not a smell.  More like an echo, a
whispery echo calling to her from below.  Here.

"He's calling to me," she whispered to Willow.  "Can you hear him?  Can
you feel him?"

Willow didn't whisper anything back, just looked at the big doggie in
the cage. Bad doggie. He'd killed two more of her children on the way
here. Drusilla smiled to herself. Just the right sort of pet for Daddy,
when he woke. She lost herself in the fantasy for long moments, the
sweet moaning tear he would walk out of, naked and ready for the world
again. For his baby.

Oh, but would he punish her for waking him? For taking too long?
Drusilla shivered and shivered and let the shiver bring her to where she
needed to be. When she stopped, Willow was watching her curiously. It
was Drusilla's second favorite Willow face, this one that spoke of
nothing more than laying her out on some vast white expanse and cutting
and teasing until Drusilla was only knowledge, only power.

If she gave her to Daddy, he would surely love her more.

No, Willow was hers, all hers. And if Daddy was bad than he would find
that out very, very quick.

"It's time, Willow."

And the look shivered away to Drusilla's bestest favorite Willow face --
the one *Drusilla* had given her, the one that drained all the Willow
away and filled it with the power struggling just beneath their feet.

"Yes, Dru. It is time."

Hand and hand clasped on the right, wrist and wrist coiled on the left.
Drusilla tore open their wrists with a nail and let the blood flow.
Reveled in Willow's flaring hiss, like fire across her skin. So powerful
they, together... they would find Daddy. They would find Willow's Oz.

And when it was time, they spoke together.

*

Spike pulled a reasonably sturdy stool out from the pile of broken
furniture and set it up on stage. Lit up a fag and looked out over the
club itself. A vast, chaotic killing floor filled with screaming,
running humans, laced liberally with his and Cordelia's favorites.

Spike grinned and watched the show. He'd made sure not to block *all*
the exits. If a human could escape, it could try its luck on the
Sunnydale night, reasonably free of charge.

The hope kept the rest of them from simply huddling into themselves and
waiting for the kill. Boring stuff, that.

Much better to have the sport.

He already felt better than he had in bloody weeks. Full as a tick
and watching the show. Cordelia was right in the middle of it, for once.
Getting her lovely ensemble all bloody and other bits-y as she mowed her
way through the crowd.  It was fucking lovely to watch, he knew that.

*Here* was the present he'd brought home for his pet, half-savage and
easily as powerful as himself, thanks to her sire. And *that* was even
better than the rest. Yeh, they'd had some good times back at the
factory. Spike loved how hard she bit when she came, when he was
pounding into her like she needed, like she all but begged for when he
and Dru were tricking her out.

Maybe tonight he'd catch her before she got all buttoned up again.

It wasn't bloody likely he'd catch *Dru*. And there was a whole new wave
of bitterness for him, ruin a good night with thoughts like that.
Conjuring a soul for her new cunt's fucking *werewolf*.  Always taking
care of strays, one way or another. That was his Dru.

But conjuring at the fucking *Hellmouth* --

And suddenly there was a sound like a great popping bubble behind him,
and other places, and the next thing he knew something searingly hot and
smelly was on top of him, tearing at his back. Going for the spine.

Spike humped his body up and twisted, but only managed to half-dislodge
the creature. And then it was lunging again, this time at his face. One
good look of puffy skin half-blistered off and then Spike drove his own
head against the floor, hard enough to break through the stage.

Again and ducking and again and losing bits of himself to the creature's
snapping maw and then they were falling down through the stage, breaking
off support posts and sending the whole thing tumbling around on their
heads.

When the dust cleared he looked over and found the thing impaled on what
must have been the world's toughest mic stand. It twitched and growled
until Spike found a few more things to impale it with.

And then he took a good, *long* look. The blisters were still trying to
form on the thing, as if it had been living in pure flame for a while
before coming from wherever-the-fuck to attack him.

A good long look at the vaguely *wavy* teeth, and the ridged claws, and
the long black tongue and he had his answer -- Cdrisi.  Extinct on earth
since before he was born, or so said one of the more interesting of the
Watcher books he'd snagged for Dru when he'd bagged the last Slayer.

Dru at the Hellmouth. Crazy fucking whore at the Hellmouth.

Sound of bubbles popping above and all around.

Dru at the Hellmouth.

Suddenly, Spike knew exactly where 'wherever-the-fuck' was.

*

And this answered the question of where all the vamps were, Xander
thought.  It was fang night at the Bronze.

They'd rounded the corner and at first, before he heard the screams, he
almost laughed.  It looked like one of those clips VH1 used to play
about Studio 54.  Obviously only the coolest vamps were allowed in the
Bronze tonight.  The rest were reduced to hanging around outside,
desperately trying to look like they didn't care.
With a grim sort of glee, Xander grabbed a stake, readied his crossbow
and muttered, "This is more like it."

Without waiting for Giles or Ethan, he sprinted forward, his target
already frozen in his sights.  He shot, wasted a single second to make
sure it was true, then threw a stake at the next one, catching it dead
center in the chest. And hey, he guessed all those throwing lessons
*had* paid off.

He was dimly aware of Giles and Ethan wading into the crowd behind,
heard the odd dull grunt when they were attacked, but since neither one
shouted or screamed, he dismissed them and grabbed another stake.

There *was* screaming, but it was from inside and since he couldn't get
there until he took care of business out here first, he dismissed that
as well.

A good fighter, Giles had said, allows no distractions.  He'd never
really fully understood that until now.  Maybe it was knowing none of
this mattered one fuck, because tonight he was nothing but pure, clean
fury. He could *feel* each move before the enemy struck and was able to
counter each one easily.

It was, in other words, a cakewalk.  He could take on a hundred vamps
tonight and dust each one.

The remaining undead must have seen this as well, because they all
suddenly froze, then turned and tried to flee, kicking and clawing each
other in their haste to get away.

Xander threw a triumphant grin toward Giles and set off in pursuit,
seeing but not processing Giles' expression of horror, hearing but not
listening to Ethan's shout of dismay.

He took one purposeful step then felt... something.  Bad.  Everywhere.
In the air, in the very ground and suddenly right behind him  --

Stake raised, he whirled and didn't even have time to react when a very
large, very hairy clawed hand seized his throat and *lifted* him,
slamming him against the alley's brick wall and then an equally large,
hairy face filled his vision.  He heard it say something, heard Giles
almost scream something and then realized he couldn't breathe,
couldn't do anything but drum his heels in weak little tattoo on the
wall behind him.  The face pressed closer, nightmare fangs bared,
small piggy eyes glowing red.  And the hand tightened.

*

The females, they who smelled of death and blood and who hurt him with
their eyes, stood at the center of wrong, making sounds, feeding the
wrong, making it grow.

Fur standing on end, skin shuddering, he threw himself against the metal
that trapped him, a long, continuous wail ripping at his throat.
Everything, everywhere was wrong, hurting his eyes, his nose, his
brain.  He needed to run, to get away he wanted *out* and his mind
screamed.

Out.  He had to get out, get away from the bad, the hungry thing at
their feet before it opened and ate him.

He screamed when the females made more noises, low grinding dark noises
that curled over his fur, sunk into his skin and *pulled* at his
muscles, making them jump and writhe against the bone, opening the
ground and his mind at the same time.

And the scream turned into a man sound of, "Noooooo," as the bones in
his face crunched and moved under his skin.

The alive female -- willowwillow -- turned and stared at him, her eyes
dark with madness, her mouth stretched in a smile filled with joy and
spoke a word -- oz -- and gestured and his scream turned into something
thin and high as his body *changed*.

He fell to the floor, writhing as his legs tried to bend the wrong way
and his spine began to collapse.  Too much, it was too fast and he
howled again, scrabbling at the floor with paws that split at the
pressure, his claws breaking.  His mind splintered, animal panic
fighting with complex human thoughts until all he could do was hurt and
cry and let the change take him.
She spoke again, the word, the name, and it hooked into his mind,
catching a thought, a memory and yanked.  And suddenly he almost knew
who/what he was and struggled to follow.  Not right, it should be
daylight, but even so he could be, he should be -- oz -- something more.
Different.

He followed the thought, let it lead to other thoughts, strange and
bright and human.  Sitting in a large metal not-cage that moved,
prey-but-not-meat next to him, smelling warm and acridly sweet and
wanting to bite/taste/mate/protect.  And with that a name.  Devon.  And
suddenly a million Devon thoughts/memories, warm and human, leading him
back to himself.  Oz.

And almost howled again when it came back to him, all of it.  Bright
sunlight and sweet blood and her face.  Her face, white, scared and
angry, her voice trying to call him, to stop and bind him.  Willow.

He shuddered and tried to curl in a ball, cried out when his spine
wouldn't let him.

Willow, he thought again, not-a-good-witch Willow, not knowing what she
had done to him or what she was doing now, just that it was bad. Even
without the fur he could still feel the ripples of the spell skitter
over his skin like the tiny claws of a thousand mice.

Oz looked at his hands, at fingers too long and ending in nails that
hooked like claws, but human.  Almost human.  Then he looked at the
cage, the simple latch holding it closed and growled, softly.  He
uncoiled and with a swift flip of his hand unlatched the cage and rolled
out. Free.

He didn't pause to look back when he heard the chanting break off and
Willow scream out his name, just ran, stumbling at first until his body
remembered it only had two legs.  And then he flew.

*

A quick thrust and the vampire, a woman Giles vaguely recognized as a
Home Ec teacher, scattered into dust.

Easy to kill the new ones, even when grossly outnumbered.  He glanced at
Ethan who was capably, if a little flamboyantly, taking on two at a
time.

A heavy weight slammed into him and he let his legs collapse, landing on
the vamp, who squealed in protest.  And twist, and roll and *smile* into
the vampire's shocked face before raising his arm.

And then the air rippled and he froze.

The vampire below him shrieked, before scrabbling up and running and
Giles let it go as he shuddered from the miasma of *wrong* assaulting
him on every level.

Ethan spat out a word that sounded like a curse and Xander... Xander
turned, his face lit from within, a triumphant smile on his lips and
didn't see the nightmare creature behind him, didn't react to Giles'
shout of dismayed warning and then it had him.

Had Xander pressed against the wall, the smile still on his face as if
he hadn't quite processed his situation yet and his face was turning
blue and what in God's name was it?

And he was running -- Ethan at his side -- drawing a silver bladed
knife, hoping it would work against this.  Still mentally running
through a list of cat demons -- Chrisoli, Jeptu -- no, too tall, too big,
too many teeth and claws sinking into Xander, who let out a whistling,
weak scream and then he was on it.

Hair reeking of sulfur pressed in his face, must make note of that, he
thought absently, and he plunged the knife in.  It screamed as he
ripped the knife free, then plunged it back in, hoping to hit at least
one vital organ. Ethan whipped out a piano wire garrote, looped it
around its neck and *pulled*.  There was a sickening, wet rip and then a
thud as the head lolled sideways and fell.

Giles threw himself to the side as the body fell, then hurtled toward
Xander and Jesus there was so much blood and his eyes were closed.  No,
no, not Xander, please and he must have been babbling out loud because
Xander opened his eyes and weakly snarled, "I'm not dead yet, Giles."
Ethan crouched next to them, slid an arm around Xander and pulled him
upright before saying tightly, "'Yet' being the operative word here.
There are more coming.  Time to run away, I think."

The smell of sulfur permeated the air and the screams from inside the
Bronze were no longer human. Yes indeed, it was time to run.

Giles slipped an arm around Xander's other side and said, "Quite.
Xander, can you --?"

"I can make it," Xander gasped as they shuffled forward.  "Just don't
let me go."

Making their way back to his flat, Xander asked with a wheeze of pain,
"What was that?"

"Dunno," Ethan muttered.  "Ugly fucker, though.  Giles?"

He shook his head, and risked a glance behind them.  No pursuit, not
yet, but it was only a matter of time, because- "I don't know.  Ethan,
do you feel it?"

Ethan nodded, his face full of intent concentration.  "Yes.  Like
someone ripped a hole in the universe."

Xander gave a bubbling laugh. "And let all the demons in?  Yay. 'Cause,
you know, things just weren't bad enough."

And Giles could only nod.  'Yay' indeed.

If the Hellmouth had opened, there wasn't much point in running, but
Giles didn't think it was quite that bad yet. The... bubbles didn't stop
popping, but seemed to have slowed. Xander grunted beside him, but Giles
didn't dare slow down to rearrange his grip. In truth, there was nothing
whatsoever stopping one of those rips from opening in the middle of his
bloody kitchen.

But there were wards, spells, something, had to be something, had to
check the Codex and Xander was bleeding and Ethan was cursing steadily
but clearly needed no instruction -- he was off and digging through
Giles' supplies for salt and holy water as soon as they'd settled Xander
down on the couch.

Would this really be the first time his furniture had been bled on?
Giles wondered, randomly, if that made him a dilettante in terms of
Sunnydale life.

Anything better to think about than Xander's body, spattered with blood
and liberally dotted with new scars and bruises of varying vintage. Most
of the blood had come from a nasty-looking but superficial head wound,
the other cuts were easy enough to stitch and yet. And yet. This was not
the body of a boy who intended to --

"It's done. There's what looks an *awful* lot like an Aswun crisping
itself against the barrier, but it won't get in. If they try in a pack,
though..."

"You know, I really miss the days when it was just vampires. Easy to
pronounce, neat deaths, rarely jump out of random rips in the fabric of
the universe..."

Ethan smirked at Xander briefly before hunkering down next to where
Giles was squatting. "You'd best keep the stitches small, Ripper."

"Look, if you think you could do a neater job of it then thread a bloody
needle and shut your gob."

"Some of the runes will have to go there."

It took a moment to sink in and then Giles realized he had his hand
locked around Ethan's throat. "There. Will. Be. No. Runes."

Ethan shook him off but didn't bother to move. "I want to live, Ripper
--"

"Then leave."

And that bought silence for a few moments while Giles glared into
Ethan's unreadable look.

"And you want to save the world. Why don't you ask Xander what *he*
wants?"

"Bastard."

"Yeah, G-man, why *don't* you ask me what I want?"

Memories, flashes of knowledge burnt directly into his spirit. One of
Eyghon's backhanded gifts: the wearer of the runes could have nearly the
power of a Slayer -- if he was willing to surrender his soul. And that
was...

"It's too much, Xander. The price is too high."

And Xander's eyes were hard, something between betrayal and raw hunger.
"It's my price to pay."

Ethan settled crosslegged onto the floor and sighed. "Well, all of ours,
actually. Most of the Powers don't look kindly on those who consign
their companions' souls to Oblivion."

"Oblivion? That doesn't sound like Hell."

Was he really going to do this? "It's worse, Xander. A soul has no hope
of rebirth from Oblivion."

"Though it's said that the hope of rebirth at some random future point
makes Hell worse for its inhabitants --"

"Shut *up*, Ethan, just... just shut up." Giles stood, ran a hand
through his hair. Wondered how much pressure he would have to exert
before he ripped the brain right out of his head. "Xander... do you
understand what this means? You're asking me to murder you."

"Was it murder when you let Buffy go to face the Master?"

And that was... too much. "Well, is she *here*? No, she's rotting
beneath a pile of rubble that used to be your bloody high school!"

"And the Master was defeated."

"But not by her! Xander, haven't you learned yet? There *is* no nobility
in sacrifice."

Xander looked as though he were about to reply, but then turned to
Ethan. "Tell me what I have to do."

And Ethan was looking at Giles, holding his gaze with a strange sort of
sad triumph that made Giles want to make love to him for hours and then
throttle him. But to have it be about this...

"Ethan --"

"You need to purify yourself first, ironically. The soul of the Warrior
demands a clean vessel. There are... oaths I have taken that prevent me
from being the one to bless you --"

"You mean there are oaths you've *kept*, Ethan?"

"Giles, *no*. Don't you get it? This isn't *about* you."

"Yes, you are just young enough to believe it's that simple, aren't
you?" Ethan shook his head, stood to face him. "Ripper... it's not our
choice to make."

It was so bitter... "So it's about the free distribution of knowledge?"

Ethan snarled at him. "No, you bastard. It's about the bloody *world*."

"No, it's about you doing everything you can to save your own ass and
never mind the fucking consequences. Just like always."

"And will you be able to save him when the Hellmouth opens? I've always
thought..." He laughed then, short and rueful. "I've always thought it's
a lucky man that gets to choose his own death."

Giles looked at Xander again, really looked at him. Naked hope and...
something like pity. So very young. "It's more... more than we'll get."

"It is." And Ethan's voice was gentle.

"I... I'll get what we need for the inks."

And Xander hugged him then, hard, heedless of his own wounds. Damnation
in his arms.

*

Concluded in Part Three.