Author's Notes: This story is an alternate version of the BtVS episode "The Harsh Light of Day".

This is a universe I've created that is a Fushion of BtVS and Warehouse 13. It's mainly some of the the Warehouse 13 characters placed within the Buffyverse. This universe is called the "Slayerverse".

As a side note, for Warehouse 13, this began as a reaction to season five. I could not stand what they did to Myka's character. What they did was so completely OOC, and an absolute travesty. Pete and Myka should never have been made into a couple. They were the perfect BroTP. I will never forgive the showrunner Jack Kenny for this. At any rate, this universe has become a labor of love for me. Helena and Myka are soul mates, and will always be together in my universe (although both in the beginning of this story are idiots, and need to work through some issues before they will be together. And they will, it will just be a slow burn.)

I made up a big Canon of this universe before I even started writing for it. I have a lot of stories in my head for this universe.

So there is Slayer!Myka, and Vampire!Helena (who has a soul). But also because I love Giles, and in my opinion, there is no Watcher who is better, so he is Myka's Watcher, and plays a significant role in the story and in my universe in general.

There are a good amount of the Buffyverse characters. They are each very similar to Canon Buffyverse, but many have a somewhat alternate backgrounds. Darla, Angel, and Spike are examples of this. And in this particular story, they have minor roles but their roles are integral to the story. Angel and Spike are elaborated on and have bigger parts in the following stories.

Buffy, Willow, and Xander are either not a part of this universe or are probably dead. (Sorry, but that's just how things worked out.)

For Warehouse 13 fans, other characters exist: Claudia, Steve, and Leena. More will show up in other stories. The Warehouse does exist, as you will learn later on, but it plays a very minor role in this three part series. In other stories in this universe you will learn more about it, but overall, it has a minor role.

This story is part of a series titled, "Ars Moriendi". There will be three stories within the series. The second story will provide a deeper look at Helena's time as a vampire.

I wanted to include this prologue because I feel it's important to know how Helena Wells became a vampire. Helena still has the same background but has never been a Warehouse Agent. She doesn't even know the Warehouse exists for a long, long time.

I don't want to write all of the Canon for this universe here. You will learn things bit by bit. Each chapter will have some basic stuff that I felt is very important for you to know for that particular chapter.

This story is written in the style of freeform. I decided I wanted to make this story more personal for each character; it's more powerful as well. So, each chapter will use first person, but that chapter may be a different character's POV. I hope that makes sense. You will understand as the next chapters are posted.

I feel that if you have at least a passing knowledge of each show, you will understand this Fushion. My friend, and the beta for this story, is into Buffy, but has little knowledge of Warehouse 13 as he's never watched it. He only knows a little bit from me, but he had no trouble understanding the story.

...equals scene breaks

italics are for thoughts

...

"I DON'T CARE!" Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!" -JK Rowling 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix'

...

Prologue 1899

"HG! Helena! Wake up!"

I feel something being removed from my head, and open my eyes to see my best friend, with the bright light from the gas lamps surrounding his body, giving the appearance of a halo.

My eyes squint at the bright light. "Woolly, stop it." I bat his hands away in aggravation. "I do not want your help, nor need it."

I fall out of the long chair and collapse onto the floor, desolate.

It was getting harder and harder to witness my daughter's death each time. I built my time machine with only one thought in mind: going back in time to rescue my daughter, to prevent her murder.

I also bore the weight of another death. I had to make a choice; try to rescue my daughter or help the young maid Mary, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been out shopping and ran right into the thieves upon her return to the house.

I witnessed one of the men grab her and seen her struggle, but I knew time was running out to save my daughter.

So every time I went back, I make the choice to rescue my daughter.

And the terrible part is, I would make the same choice over and over again.

Because I am selfish.

Each time I went back in time, I never even tried to save her instead of my daughter.

Mary was a sweet innocent girl who never really stood a chance.

I am a genius, you see.

Some may say this is nothing more than my ego talking.

I admit to being egotistical at times, but I categorically assert my advanced intellect for good reason.

Who created a time machine, a rocket to fly to the moon, a powerful vest to go faster than the human eye, and a gun not used for violence but for the ability to transport one into the sky?

Certainly not my brother Charles, whom the world assumed was the real HG Wells. All Charles contributed was the mustache.

These were all of my achievements, and the world will never know.

How I labored through many nights and hours, obsessively going over formula after formula. Finding the right parts, building my time machine so there would be no error. Surely there was a way to go beyond 22 hours and 19 minutes.

In the process, I alienated Charles, and my friends. William Wolcott, dear Woolly, was the only one to stick by me. I often wondered why he did; I treated him so badly.

There was a part of me who felt shame, remorse for doing so, but there was a larger part that just didn't care.

"Helena," Woolly spoke in a soft, soothing tone, and I allow him to pull me into his warm, comforting body.

It was the first time since Christina's death I felt actual physical comfort from someone. I refused any semblance of physical comfort from Charles.

I knew if I allowed myself to be comforted, the tears, the sorrow would become overwhelming. I needed the anger. It provided focus. I could channel all of my energy into bringing Christina back.

Pressed against him felt good, safe. It was Woolly, after all. The man who was my dearest friend and brother, just not in blood. Woolly knew more about me than Charles. We shared secrets as children, knew each other's temperament. Sometimes, I wished I felt more for him. I'd known for a long time he had feelings for me. He would make a good husband, I know; just not for me.

My hands grip Woolly and his hold became stronger. I shake, and the tears turn into sobs.

I have no idea how long this unpardonable loss of control lasts. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. I begin to feel fatigued, resenting my body's betrayal.

Woolly's voice brought me aware again. "There, there, Helena. I'm here. Just let it all out."

I vigorously shake my head, mumbling, "No, no, no, no..." I shove him away, and angrily wipe at my tears

"Helena..." Woolly tries. He sounds tired.

"No, Woolly. I can fix it, I know it. The formula must have been off. Something must have been off..."

I stand, and stare at my machine. It is magnificent. This is the fourth generation. With each successive trip, significant modifications have been made. This one had been used twice with only minor tweaks. Truth be told, no matter how many calculations I tried, this model was the best I could do.

I stumble to my workbench, and study my schematics and most recent calculations.

"Helena!" Woolly cries. "You are exhausted! You need to rest."

"If I adjust this variable here, this could be what I need," I mumble, scribbling my new calculations on the edge of my blueprints.

Woolly grabs my arm, but I roughly shake him off. "Helena! Are you listening to yourself? You say this same thing after every trip!"

I continue to ignore him, murmuring, "More time. I just need more time. If I could reach a full 23 hours, maybe then..."

"It's time to let her go, Helena...to let them both go."

I round on him, furious. "As long as there remains a chance, any chance at all, I will try. And I will find a way, you can be sure of that!" I snarl, then turn around to face my blueprints once more. "If you can't accept that, Woolly, you know where the door is," I add coldly.

"You cannot continue to bear the weight of responsibility for each death. Some things happen, Helena, that we cannot change." He pauses, and then his voice becomes tender, "I don't want to leave you, Helena." Woolly sighs, and continues, "I just...can't you at least take a rest? You have been at this nonstop, hardly sleeping. I cannot even get you to sleep."

I rub my bloodshot eyes. "No matter. I am perfectly fine."

"No, you are not!" he shouts. "Fine. You want to continue, fine, but not before you take a rest. And I am not taking 'I am a Wells, and do not require eating or sleeping.' for an excuse!"

At any other time I would have laughed at his ridiculous impersonation of me.

"We both know you cannot go on this way. You know yourself that your mind will work better upon receiving the proper care it and your body needs," he pleads.

I grip the edge of my work table and grit my teeth. I hate to acknowledge his wisdom in the matter. I straighten, and turn around. "Alright. I will eat something."

His face grows animated. "We can go upstairs and have Cook make you something-"

"No," I cut him off. "I will go out." I brush past him. "The fresh air will be invigorating. My head will clear, and I will be able to resume."

I climb the stairs of my workroom to the foyer, retrieve my favorite black waistcoat, and walk out into a classic London fog obscuring the late afternoon sun.

...

My boots click against the cobblestone sidewalks, and I am vaguely aware of the hansom cabs and the clip clop of the horses.

My mind is on my calculations and my schematics to the exclusion of all else, which is why I feel a jolt of surprise upon stumbling into a woman. Her package tumbles and the contents spill about the sidewalk.

"Oh, I do apologize. My mind is on other matters." I scoop up contents that indicate gifts for a child: a teddy bear, a doll, and a...book.

"Who is this for?" I ask softly, tracing the title.

"Well...my daughter actually." She sounds slightly defensive, causing my head to shoot up. "She has become quite enamored with HG Wells since reading 'The Time Machine', and begged me for 'War of the Worlds'."

I knew 'The Time Machine' was popular, but besides adults, it was more common to hear boys enjoying it as well. The fact a young girl asked for it, and the mother encouraged it, overwhelmed me with so many emotions: sadness, jealousy, anger, and joy.

I have practiced over the years in masking certain aspects of my life. There were a select few besides Woolly who know I am the one behind Charles's books. Every time I hear praise, it produces a wide variety of emotions. Initially it cuts me, following with pride at my accomplishments, and ending in bitter disappointment. As a woman I can never reveal who I really am to the world, as it would never be accepted.

And I think of my little Christina. How much I would have encouraged her to read all matters of books, explore the world, play games, build a treehouse, inventing and building with me, eventually going to university, and pursuing a career despite the world we live in; a world in which only boys had the right to these things.

And now that will never be.

"It's a wonderful gift. I...knew another young girl who loved books as well, and she was the most wonderful child..." I clear my throat, hoping she hasn't heard the emotion spilling into the words.

I hand the book back to the woman, who is looking at me strangely. After a moment, her face clears in understanding.

"My daughter is a gift everyday," She pauses, and then looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. "I am sure the young girl you speak of knew how much you loved her." She takes my hand, squeezes it, and smiles softly.

My emotions threaten to spill over again; this is another mother, of course she would know.

I nod my head stiffly. "Thank you. I hope your daughter enjoys the book."

I hurriedly walk away without preamble, but stop walking after a block or two. I breathe deeply and briefly shut my eyes, seeking some sort of equilibrium after this unwanted encounter.

Consciously bringing my calculations for the time machine to the forefront of my mind, I block my emotions, but in this process I only become unconscious instead.

...

"Bloody hell! You look like shite, Johnny!"

"Aw, shut your trap, Danny. Ready to go or not?"

"Keep your knickers on! I'm comin'!"

The loud, male voices, one obviously slurry from the effects of alcohol, startle me.

I stop and shake my head to clear it. The men are now disappearing in the distance. To the right a few doors down is a pub, which they obviously just vacated.

I have no idea where I am or even what time it is. Evening has already turned into night.

I check my pocket watch, a gift from Woolly who declared that if I was going to dress in men's clothes I needed a proper watch. It's 5:30.

The inscription inside the cover catches my eye: "To thine own self be true".

Woolly gave me the pocket watch on my first birthday after Christina's birth. The quote is a popular one of Shakespeare's, which I always thought a bit trite.

I asked him the meaning behind the sentiment. He only grinned, and told me to figure out the meaning on my own. And then he grew serious, saying no matter the circumstance, for him, his truth lies always with me.

As I close the clasp, my arm is shoved hard enough to jerk the watch from my hands. I look down to see it lying broken at my feet.

"Oi! I'm terribly sorry, missus!" I look up to see a news boy, his arms full of papers. He squats, his papers now snug in his left arm, and retrieves the broken pocket watch.

The boy stands, placing the broken watch gently into my hands, his face full of contrition. "I really am sorry, Missus," he says distraught. "I...I don't have the money to fix it, but I'm a good worker. I can work to pay it off..." His free hand nervously picks at his clothes.

The boy is no more than nine or ten, his youthful face at once so earnest and so frightened. Christina was only five when she died, but I can remember seeing the same expression on her face once when she broke a lamp.

That alone pains me, and I halt his protests. "It's alright. Go on now." I give him a small smile.

His face clears, and I know he is relieved. The boy turns and begins to run. Only after a few steps, he suddenly stops and turns around. The boy tips his hat and shyly says, "Night, misses," before taking off once more.

I examine the watch. It is most likely reparable. However, it is permanently stuck at 5:30 pm until it is fixed, and I decide to head into the pub.

...

The pub is called 'Nevermore'.

I step inside and close the door behind me. The light is dim, but the bar is lit well enough. There are a decent amount of patrons at the bar stools, but the tables are all empty.

I take a seat in a booth in the back, and suddenly my fatigue and hunger are catching up to me. Fortunately the barmaid is swiftly here, and I order a pint with some fish and chips.

While I await my order, I have the urge to stick my hand in the candle flame just to see how badly it will burn.

The shadows from the candles remind of some sort of Danse Macabre. They all seem to turn into hideous death masks and dancing skeletons, mocking me for my attempts at trying to foil death's plans.

Oh, for heaven's sakes, Helena. I internally berate myself at my ridiculous morbid interpretation of nothing more than flickering candlelight.

"Here you are, luv." The barmaid hands me my pint of ale along with my fish and chips.

"Thanks you," I murmur. She looks at me strangely and seems about to comment when I hear the bartender call out, yelling to return to the bar.

"If you need anything else, let me know," she says.

"I'm sure I shall be fine."

The bar maid hesitates, then gives me a small smile. "Whatever is troubling you, time has no meaning here."

I nod and am thankful when she leaves.

The meal is delicious, which I don't know whether to attribute to my hunger or the cook. I eat faster than what would be appropriate for a lady, but I could care less.

My plate clean, I push it aside and lay back against the back of the booth, feeling somewhat more human. I leisurely drink my pint, and my eyes droop. Woolly was right; I'm exhausted, and I am starting to feel it. I try to think about how I went wrong in my calculations for the time machine, but with each sip, I become more and more sluggish.

My eyes open when I feel someone slide next to me. It's a beautiful blonde, her perfume rather strong.

She says nothing but her eyes trail with hunger over my body. I know it's supposed to be seductive, but I can't help feeling like a meal she is waiting to devour.

I have employed a more subdued version of similar flirtations with a number of men and women myself. However, as a member of society, my methods held more finesse and subtlety.

Quirking an eyebrow, I give her an amused smile. "Is there something I can help you with?" I know she is a prostitute and wonder if a good shag will help me or not.

Instead of answering, she says, "The bar maid was right you know, time really has no meaning here. This is a good place to escape your troubles."

"And how do you know what troubles I have? How do you know I have troubles at all?" I query.

"Everything about you says so. The cut of your clothes." She fingers my coat and my scarf and then caresses my trousers, stopping just shy of my crotch. "They are tailored and made of expensive fabric." She threads her hand through my hair. "Your hair is clean and soft to the touch. The way you carry yourself. You carry yourself as someone who has been raised in society." She takes my hands. Hers feel quite cool, and I absently wonder how chilly the weather has become.

"Your hands have the manicure of a lady. However, it's interesting, how your hands speak of things more than perhaps of reading an occasional book, delicately playing the piano, waiting for a servant to see to her every need. To demurely wait for the right man to come along, kiss her hands, and marry her. Your hands show a certain roughness one would attribute to some sort of physical labor as well.

It's also unusual for a woman to dress as you are, and to come into this pub. Nevertheless, you are a lady of society. You are not a whore. You are only here to escape something that is troubling you, a place in which time has no meaning."

She stops, and looks at me expectantly. This woman is quite perceptive, her accent too cultured for this area of London, and I'm quite sure she is used to servicing the upper class.

It is unusual for her to be in this pub as well. However I have a suspicion she followed me, knowing because of my stature, she could demand a higher price and I would pay it.

For a moment I toy with my pint glass and watch the ale swirl around inside.

"Scholars of science, mathematics, religion, and philosophy have long studied the meaning of time, its very existence. Each discipline has deciphered its meaning according to their expertise.

The metaphysics never interested me. I am only concerned with mastering time mathematically and scientifically for my own ends."

Now I shift my body to face her and state, "You see, I am not interested in sharing my findings with humanity. Humanity is unworthy and will only use my findings for cruelty. This world is barbaric enough, especially for children.

I am not noble, you see. I would do anything to save the one I love, and yet here I am, wanting to forget time even exists."

I turn back around and down the remains of my ale, and return the pint glass onto the tabletop.

She rises and offers her hand. "Come with me, and fall into the abyss where time has no meaning or existence."

And I do.

...

The barmaid was right.

Time has no meaning here.

There is no past and no future.

There is only now.

My world has shrunk down to this room and this bed, and I have truly fallen into the abyss this woman described.

She is kind and caring, and the sexual release she provides is incredible.

Even though she is a prostitute, I am fleetingly sad this is nothing more than a job to her. I wonder if she is simply an actress performing a play, or if she really cares about my well-being at all.

Her name is Darla. We never discussed payment. She simply took me to a room upstairs and undressed me.

I wanted to forget. At least for a little while, and Darla made it very easy.

As I neared my second orgasm, I am dimly aware of pain, which pushes me over the edge and prolongs the intense pleasure. Eventually it is too much, but the bite continued.

"Stop!" I cry. I try to shove her away, but I feel weak. With the exhaustion of trying to stop Christina's murder, the ale, food, and sex, I'm becoming as weak as a kitten.

Darla finally rolls away, and I'm not amused, no matter what kind of rush the bite provided. I rise from the bed, feeling a little woozy when I stand and begin to gather my clothes. I feel the urgency of time returning. I should be at home, working on new calculations for the time machine.

It is past time to leave my escape from reality.

Darla tries to cajole me back to bed. "Oh, come on, Helena. Didn't it feel good? I could tell how hard you came when I bit you. Tell me you didn't like that."

I finish buttoning my shirt and my trousers. Raising my hand to my neck, I can tell by the feel of it that the bite was sharp, sliced, and not the clumsy biting of human teeth.

Darla rises in the nude and walks over to stand in front of me, just short of invading my personal space. Her cool hand caresses my face, and I'm reminded of the coldness of her first touch.

"What would you say if I told you I can take your pain away. Permanently."

I say nothing, but the vanity mirror confirms my suspicions. I can only see myself; exhausted in mind, body, and spirit. I wonder what it would feel like to no longer see myself at all.

"You are a vampire, are you not?" I say, stating more than questioning.

There had always been rumors here and there. The gothic novels of the time period; things like seances and a general fascination with spirits and the afterlife. I had always seen this as poppycock as there was no scientific basis. Rather I saw books like Dracula as an allegory. An allegory for sexuality. The seances I viewed as chicanery.

"And what if I was? Would you have slept with me if I told you?" She smiles coyly, and continues, "We are both deceivers, Helena. Do what we must do in order to survive in this world, a civilization made by and only for men. We wear masks to hide our true identity. Our true face is something we can never show whether we wish to or not."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

Darla removes her hand from my face and instead of answering the question says, "I know who you really are."

Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I say, "What are you talking about?"

"I know you are the real HG Wells."

"You are wrong," I say coldly. "My brother Charles is HG Wells. I am merely his sister."

"Oh yes, I know. You are the sister who as any woman, is treated as a second class citizen or in my case, the filth on the street. You are not merely his sister. I know how smart you are, and about things you have created."

I roughly grab her. "How do you know this? No one knows this."

Darla laughs and says, "I have my sources."

I shake her. "Tell me!"

"Your friend William is quite talkative when shall we say...properly motivated," she says coyly.

I push Darla away, angry at her and angry at Woolly. I begin to curse him for his loose tongue.

"He let a few things slip...well, more than a few. Enough for me to know who you were at any rate."

Mimicking Woolly's voice, Darla says, "I know a woman, who is brilliant and beautiful. Definitely more brilliant than me...HG...I mean uh Helena!...she is more brilliant than any man. She has invented so many wonderful things and doesn't get the credit she deserves. It makes me so angry!"

I have to admit, she does a good impersonation of him.

She smiles and says, "I would say he has quite the little crush on you."

"I am aware of his feelings," I say stiffly, closing my eyes in shame and mumble, "God knows he can do better than me."

I open my eyes and ask, "Why me? There are plenty of humans you can prey upon."

"Oh, I know. And have done so many times, but I'm not looking for a meal. I am looking for someone worthy of being my companion."

"And what makes you think I would consider you as worthy of my eternal companionship?"

Instead of a direct response, Darla says, "How much would you give to take away the pain? Hunt down the men who murdered your daughter and make them suffer for it? To give into your desires to torture and kill these men. I am the only one who can give you what you need and desire." She offers her hand. "Come, my love. After your revenge, we can travel the world together, and we can celebrate your brilliance. There will no longer be pain or doubt or guilt or failure."

I am so tired. So very, very tired. I have tried so many different times, so many different ways to bring Christina back. My resolve to try to do so again is dwindling.

My hand subconsciously seeks out my necklace and I fiddle with the locket. While I don't want to give up, Darla presents a tempting offer. Perhaps making these men suffer and die for murdering my baby girl will bring at least a small amount of satisfaction.

I make my decision and glance in the mirror, knowing this is the last time I will be able to do so.

My hand reaches out to hers in silent acceptance, and Darla smiles as she walks me over to the bed.

We lie down, and she caresses my face. Darla's face morphs into the guise of a demon. I feel as though this should scare me, perhaps to the point of refuting my earlier acceptance, but all I feel is calm and at peace.

"Now just relax, and let Darla make it all better."

I close my eyes, grimacing when her teeth sink into my neck. But the deeper she goes, the pain changes into a sense of euphoria and arousal.

I'm fading fast, dying in the hope of becoming alive again. The last thing I'm aware of before I fall into oblivion is Darla stroking my face, bringing her slit wrist to my mouth to suck her blood.

And Helena Wells ceases to exist.