It's very, very quiet in the car. And the not talking isn't a big deal so much as the no music playing. Daddy loves to play music in the car. But something bad just happened. And I don't understand what, but I'm not about to ask. Not now.

Daddy hit Mummy, so hard that he knocked her out. He told me after he put her in the passenger seat that he had to so he could get her out safely, because she wouldn't have come otherwise. Then he told me to get in the car, twice, because I wasn't moving quickly enough, and we had to go – the Slayer and Angeles were back inside our home, fighting, and I think Daddy thought the Slayer would win and kill us. I don't know, I don't really know anything, except that we're out of Sunnydale and driving faster and faster away. I don't have any of my things, except for my favorite doll Rosalie. She's soft, not like Mummy's dolls, and I hold her tight next to me and watch Daddy from the side. I can't see Mummy because he has her pulled into him. She still hasn't woken up. It's been a long time, I think, but she still hasn't woken up.

I almost ask Daddy if she's going to wake up but then I don't because I'm scared. I'm more scared than I think I've ever been, actually, so scared I can barely move.

The car roars under us as Daddy passes other cars and streetlights.

Then, "Angeles . . ."

Daddy looks away from the road and down at where Mummy's head must be, because that was Mummy who said that. She said it like it was in a dream, but she said it.

"Dru?" Dad murmurs.

"Angeles . . . Angeles!"

She went from the barest whisper to a scream. Daddy swerves the car and I squeeze Rosalie tighter, but that's all I can do, that's all I can do, and Mommy is sitting up now, and the back of her head goes back and forth and her hair whips all around.

"He's burning!" she shrieks. "He's burning, I can see it!"

Daddy reaches for her. "Love, love, I'm so sorry – Dru –"

She smacks his hand away. "You! You betrayed him! Our sire!"

"I did it for us! For our family!"

"He was our family! He was!"

We've stopped, but not in the street, we're on the side of it.

"He's dead?" Daddy asks. "Are you sure?"

"He's dead," Mummy hisses, "He's dead. He died at the Slayer's hands . . . after she restored his soul! And now he's burning . . ." She digs her hands into her hair. "Burning, burning, Spike . . . like he's in sunlight – like he's the sun itself, burning, burning!"

Daddy grabs her again and makes her get her hands out of her hair and pulls her to him. "Dru," he says, but she's screaming, sobbing, screaming. "Dru. Drusilla, please, darling, darling – it had to be done. He was ruining us. He wanted to destroy the world, and Amara isn't ready."

"You're wrong!"

And I think Daddy is, but I won't say it.

"She's five years old! She can't turn at five!"

"You don't understand her! Your own child! You don't understand her, any more than you understand me! Any more than you understood Angeles, my sweet Angeles!" Then she collapses, and I can't see her anymore. "So much fire, Spike . . ." And she's back to whispering, like she's exhausted. "So much fire . . ."

"It's alright, pet," Daddy whispers. "We're safe. Isn't that enough?"

Mummy doesn't say yes. She keeps talking about the fire. And after a while, Daddy starts driving again. And Mummy murmurs for a long time about Angeles and fire and souls, and then I can't tell what she's murmuring at all, and then she's quiet. And then we're all quiet again.

. . . . .

Around four in the morning, Daddy turns suddenly onto a gravel road. It's the first time I've paid attention to anything in hours, even though I haven't slept, I've just been to places in my head. Places in Sunnydale and places I've never been, like hell, and like where we might be going, and places I know we're not going to.

Up the hill I see a single light, a porch light, shining on the porch of a two-story house with lots of windows. When we get closer, I see a truck parked over to the side of the house. Daddy slows down when we get close and stops at the top of the hill but still a good bit from the house.

"You stay and rest, love," he says, and his head is down so I know he's talking to Mummy, who's still resting against him. "I'll go in and clean out the place, then I'll fetch you and you can have your pick –"

"No," and Mummy's up like a shot, and by the light from the porch I can see that her face has turned into the wrinkly sort of face she makes before she eats. "No. I want to feel it. The life pumping into my mouth like music. Thump-thump." She reaches for the door. "Thump-thump."

Daddy, he misses a beat, but then there's a change and his face does the same wrinkly thing Mummy's has. "Whatever you want, darling," he says, and for the first time all night he looks at me. "Wait here, Princess."

"Precious baby, wait for your parents. Your good Daddy." And then Mummy's out of the car. Daddy follows.

I unbuckle and rest my head against the window and watch for a bit. Daddy gets the door open, and Mummy floats through after him like a ghost. A minute goes by, and a light flashes on upstairs. I see shadows moving, and at least two of them aren't Mummy's or Daddy's. I watch Daddy's shadow make another shadow twist strange and fall, and then I sigh and rest my head against Rosalie's, wishing they would hurry. I want to feel better. Daddy and Mummy know how to make me feel better more than anyone else.

I'm kicking the back of the seat like I'm not supposed to when Daddy comes out of the house, rubbing his hands. His face is back to the face I like better, the face that looks more like mine. He opens my door and takes me up in his arms before I can put my feet on the ground. I grip Rosalie hard with one hand so I can wrap both of my arms around Daddy's neck. "There we are, sweet," he says. "Daddy's got you."

He carries me across grass and gravel and up the porch and into the house. It's a nice house, with a big living room and an even bigger kitchen. It's the kitchen he carries me into. He sets me in a chair at a long table. I look around for a body, but there isn't one. I think all of the bodies were upstairs, and anyway, Daddy and Mummy are pretty clean about all that. They probably tucked the bodies in a closet or maybe tossed them out a window. I put Rosalie in my lap and rub my eyes.

"Lots of food in here," Daddy says, and he sounds too happy, fake happy. He's going through cabinets, and he pulls out bread, then some peanut butter, and then he goes to the fridge and gets jelly and a container of something green, which he sniffs and decides is okay. "A quick supper for you, love, then it's bedtime."

"Where's Mummy?"

"Upstairs."

"Is she going to be alright?"

He's gotten a plate. He dumps the green stuff – broccoli – onto it and sticks it into the microwave and makes it go. "She's going to be fine," he says, and he doesn't sound so happy anymore.

The broccoli finishes heating and Daddy makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then puts it all in front of me, plus a fork and a glass of milk. "Now, then," he says, crouching down to me and taking my hands, rubbing them with his thumbs. "I'm going back upstairs so Mummy and I can talk –"

"Did you want Angeles to die?"

His thumbs stop rubbing my hands. They just press into them. "All of that is none of your concern, Mar," he tells me. "It's for grown-ups to worry about."

"But I thought Angeles –"

"Forget about Angeles," he says, sharp all of a sudden. "Forget about bloody Sunnydale while you're at it. I don't want to hear you talk about it anymore."

I pull one hand away to rub my eye, so I have an excuse for why it's going red.

Daddy sighs and I see him let his head fall and then come back up again. "I'm sorry, Princess, I didn't mean to snap. It's been a difficult night. And I know it's been hard on you, too, and you're being very brave, sweet girl. I'm proud of you. Just . . . just let me worry about everything, let me take care of your mother, and you just be my good girl. Okay?"

I nod.

"Okay. There's a room upstairs, the second door on your left. It has a big bed all for you. Eat your supper and then go to sleep."

"Alright."

He stands and kisses my forehead. "Have a sweet dream." He starts to walk out, but then stops and nods at my plate, and in the bright white light I can't help but think he looks kind of sick. "Eat all of your broccoli," he tells me, and then he's gone. I hear him climb the stairs.

I do eat all of the broccoli, even though it isn't warm enough, and then I eat half of my sandwich but I'm not really hungry. I drink my milk, though, and put the dishes in the sink. Then I go upstairs.

Mummy and Daddy are talking. She sounds like she's singing, actually, but then she's shouting. I put Rosalie on the bed and go in search of a bathroom. I find one at the end of the hall and use the toilet, wash my hands, and go back to the bedroom. I close the curtains good and tight before I pull off my shoes and socks and climb under the covers.

The next thing I know, someone's in the bed with me, someone cold. I go cold, too, but not in the same way. I open my eyes, how long have I been asleep? It's still dark out, but the hand that reaches around my body and strokes mine is so pale it seems to shine anyway, like the moon.

"Mummy?"

"Shh, my sweet," she says in her sing-song way, trailing her fingers up and down my arm, "Go back to sleep. Mummy's going to sleep right here with you. My precious baby . . . my one and only true love . . ."

"Where's Daddy?"

"Daddy's been naughty. Daddy doesn't get to be with Mummy or Baby tonight. Mummy and Baby get to be together, just Mummy and Baby."

"I'm not a baby, Mummy . . ."

"Hush, now. Don't contradict."

. . . . .

I wake up to an awful smell and light coming into the room. Too much light, not just the kind that slips in through curtains. I sit up, all tangled in blankets, and see someone in front of the window, the bare glass, it's Mummy, Mummy's burning –

"Mummy! Mummy, move!"

She's singing and swaying and screaming, too, and then the door bangs open and Daddy is in the room, by her side, dragging her from the window. She collapses on the carpet when he lets her go, flames flickering from places all over her body.

"Burning . . . like him, like him . . ."

Daddy yanks the quilt off of the bed and throws it over her. He says something, and I don't hear it the first time, because Mummy, Mummy looks so bad and I'm scared, but then Daddy shouts it right at me: "Amara, I said get the blinds!"

I stumble out of bed and close the blinds, the curtains, and go to Mummy, because I'm crying and she makes that better. "Mummy?" I say, so she'll tell me she's alright, "Mummy, what were you doing?"

"Burning like him, love," she mutters, her eyes finding mine but losing them again, "Burning like we all must."

"Mummy –"

"Amara, go downstairs," says Daddy, almost whispering. I don't obey him, not right away, and I'm trying to find a way to tell him that I need to stay with Mummy when he reaches out and grabs my sleeve and yanks me to my feet. "Girl, make me repeat myself one more time, and I swear I'll thrash you for it! Now go!" He gives my bottom a hard smack, and I mind him, I go, crying, and not because of the smack and not because of the threat, because of Mummy, all because of Mummy. I stumble down the hallway crying, I stumble down the stairs crying, I sit on the bottom step crying – because of Mummy. She was trying to burn herself. She was burning herself. Did she want to burn herself away?

Burning like him, love. Burning like we all will.

Burning like Angeles, that's what she meant. Burning like he is in hell . . . but she said like we all will . . . so that means I'll burn? I'll burn like Angeles?

Me, Mummy, Daddy . . . burning forever and ever, because that's what hell is, just burning for always.

A terror strikes me like it never has in all my life, and I sit here on the stairs and cry.