Retribution

by Samantha4

A nemesis from Buffy's past returns to Sunnydale to wreak havoc.

Retribution

Note: This story contains semi-graphic imagery and religious references that may be inappropriate for some readers.

Lightning pierced the black velvet sky, bathing the slumbering city in a brief flash of white light. The thunder that immediately followed shook the ground beneath her feet. Instinctively, she clamped her hands over her ears and quickened her pace. She was long past her curfew and she needed to get home before the downpour.
Pulling her coat around her, she hurried through the darkness.

***

It had been a while since he had been to this place—this place that he had called home for three years, this place where he had been imprisoned, then set free, then imprisoned again. It was strangely exhilarating being back.
He stood in the shadows, watching. Looking. Studying. Preparing for the long road that lay ahead of him. The road that had led him here. The road that would lead him to his ultimate goal—his final triumph.

There was so much to do. He had waited patiently and had planned meticulously for his time. And it would begin tonight.

***

Riley Finn was not happy. He hated the rain. And now he was forced to sit in it. Pulling his olive drab, standard issue poncho over his head, he sank further into his crouching position. He was sweating underneath the heavy plastic rain gear and he grunted impatiently at the futility of the entire situation.
He could be home right now—dry and warm. But no. He was stuck here, in the downpour, searching for hostiles that had enough sense to stay out of the rain.
"Anything?" he asked, annoyed.
Graham shrugged next to him. "Negative, sir. All quadrants are clear."
Riley gripped his taser tightly in his fist, shielding it under his poncho. Weapons that shoot a blast of electricity do not mix well with rain. He was reminded briefly about the warning labels on hair dryers—"Do not use in the bathtub." He mumbled something under his breath.
"What was that, sir?" Graham asked from beside him.
"I said," Riley enunciated, "that these damn things are useless in the rain." He motioned to the taser.
Graham nodded his head. "Permission to speak frankly, sir."
Riley looked at his comrade more harshly than intended. "Just say what's on your mind, Graham. You don't need permission."
Pausing momentarily before speaking, Graham nodded slightly. "Well, in my opinion," he said loudly, trying to be heard over the rain pounding in his ears, "this whole night is worthless. We are accomplishing absolutely nothing."
Nodding slowly in agreement, Riley replied, "You're absolutely right, Graham. Let's get out of here."
The two commandos stood up and headed back to base.

***

The two girls had long since called it a night. The moment the first raindrop hit their skin, they headed back to the dorm. They were now sitting on the floor next to each other, watching a movie.
"See," Willow replied, munching happily on some popcorn and nudging Buffy in the arm. "This is much more fun than catching pneumonia. Don't you think?"
Buffy smiled. "It is that," she said absently.
"Uh-oh. What is it?" Willow's eyes scanned Buffy's face and noted the faraway look.
"What?" Buffy asked, noticing Willow's scrutinizing gaze. "Oh. Nothing."
She looked again at the t.v. screen.
Willow studied her a moment longer, uneasiness rising in her chest. Because she knew that when Buffy said "nothing" she really meant "something".
And it was always something big.

***

The rain and the tears worked together to make her vision almost nil. She stumbled through the rainy night, her breath burning in her chest. The faster she ran, the easier it seemed for him to keep up with her.
He had come out of nowhere. It had just started to rain and she had begun to jog. She had turned a corner and bumped into him.
"Excuse me," she had said hastily, looking apologetically up into his face.
The lightning flashed again and that's when she saw it. His face. It was grotesquely disfigured. And the eyes. There was no soul behind them.
And she had begun to run, terror gripping her and twisting her insides.
Even now, at full speed, the rain and her ragged breaths loud in her ears, she could hear him behind her, his heavy steps splashing in the puddles. She stumbled over a root, falling to her knees, her fingers digging into the wet sod beneath her. Panic and adrenaline forced her up, pushing her to run blindly into the driving rain, to seek the nearest refuge.
She ran past the spot recently vacated by two rain-soaked soldiers, the twigs on the bushes snagging on her jeans and cutting into her arms. She kept looking over her shoulder and not seeing him. But she heard him, felt him—the incessant, steady treading of his feet.
Her gaze fell upon the nearest shelter—a church. She pushed frantically at the heavy wooden door, forcing all her weight against it. It finally gave way and allowed her enough space to squeeze through. She closed it quickly, her back pressed so tightly against it that she could feel the grain cutting into her skin.
She ran to the altar and fell to her knees, gazing up at the image of the Savior, looking pleadingly at it. Her fingers were clasped tightly together, the knuckles showing white in the candlelight.
She needed to pray, but the words wouldn't come. They caught in her throat. Swallowing hard, she bowed her head, willing the words to her lips. They finally came, abruptly—the only prayer she could remember.
"Our Father," she gasped, "Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..."
The words flowed from her soul rapidly, breathlessly, falling from her lips and dissipating into the stale air of the empty church.
"But deliver us from evil."
Those words pounded in her ears and hung in the air in front of her, suddenly so meaningful. She looked up at the likeness of Jesus, searching for comprehension, for protection.
She repeated the words, "Deliver us from evil..." and closed her eyes again.

***

And so it had begun—his plan had been put into motion. He sat by the fire, his hair and clothes long since dry. Familiar surroundings, abandoned long ago, wrapped around him warmly.
He let the memories come. One by one, they danced across his consciousness and he closed his eyes. There was so much to make up for and so much time had already been wasted. But no matter. Time was something he had plenty of.
Shedding his clothes, he padded smoothly to the bed. The sheets felt soft against his cool skin and as he sunk his head further into the feather pillow, he could faintly smell the scent of mildew. He hadn't slept on these sheets in months and the cool, damp air had taken its toll. But these were details.
Stretching his lanky frame luxuriously, he smiled. Tomorrow, he would go out again.

***

Reluctantly, he opened his eyelids. The glare of the morning sun hurt his eyes.
"Wake up, Riley."
Squinting, Riley looked annoyingly up at the intruder. "Forrest," he croaked, his voice thick with sleep. "What is it?"
Forrest reached down and unceremoniously pulled off the blankets, briefly thanking his lucky stars that his friend did not sleep in the buff. "Dead girl. Came over the wire a few minutes ago."
Riley rubbed his eyes roughly and sat up. "Where?" he asked, looking intently at Forrest.
"St. Peter's Church."
Riley's eyes widened. "St. Peter's? That's my church," he said absently.
"Good," Forrest replied, tugging on Riley's arm. "We won't get lost on the way there, then."

***

Her uneasiness continued to plague her in her sleep. She tossed and turned all night, strange dreams adding to her growing discomfort. From what she could recall, it wasn't what she *saw* in her dreams that disturbed her, it was what she *felt*. A strong sense of dread weighed heavily on her mind.
This same feeling still filled her when she opened her eyes, awakened by the phone. She sat up and reached for the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Buffy. I'm sorry to wake you." Giles' crisp voice sounded from the other end.
She sat up straighter, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing up. There was only one reason why Giles ever called her this early—something was wrong.
"What is it, Giles?" she asked quickly, swallowing down the lump that had begun to form in her throat.
Giles took a deep breath. "A girl was killed last night. She was found this
morning."
"Yeah. And?" Buffy inquired, at the risk of sounding callous. People were killed every day. It rarely involved her. There was something Giles was not telling her, something he was reluctant for her to know.
"And," Giles answered slowly, pushing his breath out through his teeth, "there's something else."
Buffy held her breath.

***

Her body lay on the altar, under the painting of Jesus. Her hands were folded neatly on her chest, her legs straight ahead of her. It was obvious she had been positioned that way. Whoever killed her was sending a message.
From a distance, it looked as though she had taken shelter from the storm and had fallen asleep. But a closer inspection told a different tale. Three strange markings marred her otherwise peaceful countenance.
Two were tiny holes on the right side of her neck, which, to the two soldiers at the scene, told them exactly *what* they were dealing with. But the third marking puzzled them. It told them *who* they were dealing with, even though they didn't realize it.
On her left cheek, a small but distinctive symbol was carved into her skin.
It was a cross.

***

He was pacing. Pent-up energy hummed beneath his skin and he smiled impatiently to himself.
Sleep had come and gone and he could feel that it must already be early morning. He was tempted to pull back the curtain to take a peek, but thought better of it. He may feel invincible, but there were things beyond his control that could destroy him. Sometimes he resented these limitations on his existence. But only briefly. For the possibilities of it were endless.
He looked at the clock. 12:07 it read. Of course, it hadn't been wound since he had last resided there. He walked over to it and brushed off the dust with his fingers. Time; it passed so slowly sometimes. He carefully picked it up, wound it—knowing that the time was incorrect—and set it down again, content to hear the rhythm of the ticking. The sound was a tangible way to observe the passage of time, especially in a place that knew no change in light patterns.
Turning from the clock, he strode across the room smoothly and back again, repeating the cycle for a long while. His mind worked better when he was on his feet. And he must think.
Last night had been just the beginning. There was much more to be done.
But all he could do for now was wait.

***

Professor Walsh was lecturing, but Riley wasn't listening. He couldn't. His mind was occupied with thoughts of earlier that morning. The girl. She had been laid out as if she was some sort of sacrifice. But a sacrifice to whom or what he didn't know.
The whole thing disturbed him. He had never seen anything like it before. Vampires killed, yes, but never with such cold calculation. In his experience, they just fed and fled. They didn't stop to make a statement. But this one had. Not only did he kill, but he did so inside a church in the presence of God. And marked his victim with the cross. The total disregard for all Riley found sacred angered him. But it also frightened him.
For if this demon no longer feared God, what did he fear?

***

A ritual killing. That's what the news said it was. The victim, drained of blood, was laid out on the altar of a church. Neither she nor Giles knew about the cross—the police had not released that tidbit of information to the public. So when Giles had heard the story on the news, he did not hear about the marking.

Buffy sat watching Professor Walsh, but not paying attention. What was supposed to be her notes was nothing more than a page full of doodles. She couldn't shake the uneasiness that had been weighing on her since last night.
There was something about this murder that ate at her. Both she and Giles were sure that the culprit was a vampire. The only surprise was the location. A church--the one place that represents all that vampires fear—was the place where a vampire had left its victim.
There was a message there. But what was it?

***

Sunnydale was in danger. Well, more than usual. Its newest resident was one to be reckoned with. He was stealthy and clever and most of all brutal. He wouldn't hesitate to use its population for his own personal game. And unknown to them, he had already begun.

***

He crouched behind the bushes, his eyes and ears open, his mind working. He had been unable to get the picture of that young girl's face out of his mind. All day, it would flash in front of his eyes and present itself in the darkness behind his eyelids. And as he sat in the shadows, staring ahead of him, he could see her face, the cross carved in her cheek.
A small shiver began at the base of his spine and grew in intensity as it traveled to his neck. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes briefly, trying to push back the graphic images haunting his consciousness. His focus was waning; the longer he sat in the darkness in search of a killer, the more distracted he became.
Suddenly needing air and in an attempt to calm his racing heart, he stood up, surveying the area again. Nothing. He felt a hand tug urgently on his cammo pants.
"Finn! What the hell are you doing?"
Riley looked blankly at the source of the voice. Forrest's eyes were wide open, looking intently into his. "What?" he asked absently.
"Get down, man!" Forrest yanked on Riley's arm roughly, dragging him back to the ground. "What the hell's the matter with you, anyway?"
Riley just stared at him, blinking. Forrest's words seemed to be coming from miles away and it took a while for him to comprehend them. He shook his head to clear it and focused on his friend's face. "Nothing," he finally answered. "I'm fine."
Forrest just looked at him doubtfully.

***

Buffy strolled along the perimeter of the park, her eyes scanning every shadow, her ears scrutinizing every sound.
She was alone. She didn't want to take the chance that Willow or anyone else might get hurt. Which was a distinct possibility and even more likely with a crazed killer on the loose.
No, Buffy had to find this vamp and kill him. Before he killed again. Which, of course, was easier said than done.
There was something about this particular vampire that disturbed her. It was a feeling she had been unable to shake since Giles had phoned. Of course, seeing the girl's face on t.v. hadn't really helped much. The wide smile, the sparkling eyes that she had in life were now gone forever. Buffy couldn't help but wonder if she had ever met her—maybe in the bookstore or the student union. Perhaps she had bumped into her on the street and never realized who she was.
Someone's daughter, someone's sister, someone's friend, perhaps someone's girlfriend—this young woman had been all of these things. And now all she was was an innocent pawn in a sick game.
Buffy thought of all these things as she patrolled. She herself was most of these things—daughter, friend, and at one time, girlfriend. In many ways she was just like this girl. And that frightened her. But she had one thing in her favor—she could sense the bad guys before they could sense her.
Which she did now. She slowed her pace and tilted her head, the hairs on her arms standing up. He was close, but as she studied the darkness around her, she couldn't see him. And she couldn't pinpoint his location. He was moving—staying close, but circling her slowly, very slowly. Toying with her.
She could feel every muscle in her body tense, could almost hear the sound his body made as he moved through the air. She pulled the stake from her belt loop and grasped it tightly in her fist, holding it at the ready.
But he was gone.

***

There she was—the Slayer. He stood in the shadows, studying her. She stopped and looked around. She could feel him.
He smiled contentedly to himself as he began to walk in slow, easy circles, watching as she tried to locate him. He could see her tense up, could hear her shallow breaths, could smell her concentration.
He continued his achingly slow dance with her--the object of his obsession—for a few more moments, watching the thin lines crease her smooth forehead and the anger mix with the sadness in her eyes.
She was a fighter with the face of a child.
And he was a demon with the face of an angel.

***
"Early this morning, the body of 20-year-old Sharon McCormick was found near the UC Sunnydale campus. Investigators say they are following all leads and made no comment as to whether or not this murder is in any way connected to that of 18-year-old Christa Matthews, whose body was found in St. Peter's Church yesterday morning..."

***

The memorial service had been opened up to the public. The pews were full and people were lining the walls, silently paying their respects.
Christa Matthews' parents opted not to have an open casket. To see her face and the trademark of her killer would just cause unnecessary pain. It was hard enough being without her.
The people of Sunnydale, no strangers to the untimely loss of its citizens, showed their support. Flowers from people all over the city filled the area around the casket. Students, people who shared a class and shared a way of life with Christa, silently mourned and struggled with internal questions. Why her? What had she done to deserve this?
But Riley didn't ask those questions. He knew it was futile to ask questions that had no answers. He stood in the back of the church, a small but quaint building that smelled faintly of incense. He stared at the casket—the one that held the body of a girl who died before her time.
The sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window painted the front of the church in a myriad of colors and Riley found himself wondering about the girl Christa had been. Had she been shy or outgoing? Friendly or aloof? He allowed himself to imagine that her smile lit up a room and her laugh filled people's hearts with music. She had dreams and aspirations, plans and potential. And now that was gone; it was over.
It was only when he closed his eyes and felt the warm tears roll down his face that he realized he was crying. And he couldn't understand why. He hadn't talked to her or laughed with her. And yet he cried for her.
He crossed himself quickly, swallowing his tears and ignoring the dull ache in his chest. He couldn't stay here.
Quietly, he slipped out the door.

***

"It had to be him, Giles. He was close, but I couldn't see him. And then he was gone. He was trying to mess with my head," Buffy said resolutely, Giles didn't reply. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and replaced the spectacles on his nose. Sighing, he stood up. "It pains me to say this, Buffy, but I just don't know. I have researched since yesterday morning and have found nothing. There have been only a handful of instances where a
vampire actually left his victim in a church. And their own deaths are all in the records." He took a breath. "And besides, the church doesn't seem to be a common denominator. The latest victim was found outside..." His voice trailed off, his last words lingering in the air.
"I've got to find him," Buffy replied, as much to herself as to Giles. "My failure means more people will die..." She shuddered at the thought.

***

The clock over the fireplace, now proudly showing the right time, was a pleasant reminder that dusk was fast approaching. He sat in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, fingers entwined loosely across his stomach.
He was pleased with himself. Everything was falling into place. He had planted the seed in her mind; now all he had to do was sow it.
That would be the fun part.
He closed his eyes and brought his hand to his nose, inhaling deeply. Her scent filled his nostrils and he felt his body relax. He had found her scarf last night when he returned to the mansion. It was wrapped around his hand now, a keepsake and an inspiration.
At the time she had left it there, things were different. He was different. But now, things were as they should have always been. And the scarf only served as a reminder of everything he had come back for, everything for which he sought retribution.
He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers and waited for nightfall.

***

The people of Sunnydale had already begun to form their own conclusions. Two murders, two nights. Both victims—young female college students.
A killer had taken up residence in their quiet city. And he left no evidence—no fingerprints, no clues, not a trace.
Every person was looked at with caution, every man with suspicion.
But the culprit was nowhere among these day-dwellers. His domain was the darkness; the night was his time.
While Sunnydale slept, he preyed.

***

The debriefing was over and everyone had gone their separate ways. Except Riley. He continued to sit. His eyes were focused in front of him, the objects of his gaze in the center of his vision. Their faces stared back at him, burning into his memory.
Walsh had granted him personal time in the morning, which he had used to attend Christa's memorial service. But when he returned, he discovered that hers wasn't the only service that would need attending.
The face of Sharon McCormick smiled back at him from the bulletin board in front of him. Christa Matthews did the same, though her smile was a little weaker, a little shyer. Two young faces, so beautiful. And Riley tried hard not to let his eyes fall upon the crime scene photos below the portraits. That's not how he wanted to remember them—marked and lifeless. He wanted to see them as they were, how they should be. How they looked as angels, after their pain and suffering were over.
That's how Riley imagined them—as angels. It was a somewhat childish notion, he knew. But he needed to believe that. He couldn't accept that they had died for nothing, that they had been marked with the symbol of Christ and then had been left behind.
He brought a trembling hand to his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, then drew the hand slowly through his hair. The deep breath he took was ragged and caught in his throat.
He closed his eyes. Come on, Finn. Get a grip.

***

She was alone again. Which was the whole point. She was trying to draw him out. She—a seemingly helpless coed, alone in the darkness. He—a ruthless
vampire looking for his latest victim.
Stepping into the center of the park, the darkest part, she peered into the shadows. There was nothing to see. But more importantly, there was nothing to sense. And even though the purpose of this little expedition was to find the killer, she couldn't help but feel relief that she hadn't. At least not yet.
She continued through the bushes, walking slowly, listening and looking. She had almost gotten all the way through the foliage when she caught her foot on something heavy. She looked down distractedly, but in the dim light she could barely make out anything. She nudged her foot forward, but it wouldn't budge. The breeze blew back the branches briefly, allowing in enough light for her to see what she was caught on.
She gasped.

***

She had gotten his surprise. He knew she would. He knew how she thought, where she patrolled. And it was time to up the stakes, so to speak. So he had left her a little memento.
He watched, grinning slightly, as her expression changed from one of bewilderment to one of realization. The horror etched in her features was clear to him even in the shadows. He took a step closer, boldly stepping into the soft glow of the lamp.
She was distracted and didn't feel him there. He was free to observe her as she kneeled down and extended a shaking hand to the girl's neck, checking for a pulse. Saw her close her eyes in comprehension and bow her head briefly, then look back up and brush her fingers lightly over the tiny punctures on the side of the girl's neck.
He stood still, taking it all in, relishing the reaction he saw in her eyes and the smell he detected emanating from her—a mixture of fear, anger, and something new. Guilt. She felt guilty for this girl's death. And he was pleased.
But the pinnacle of the evening's festivities came a moment later—at the discovery of the trademark carving on the girl's cheek. His eyes sparkled mischievously as he watched her mouth work with silent sounds, watched her eyes widen. He could hear her breath become ragged and could almost see the fear emanating from her skin.
"Until we meet again, lover," he whispered. He smiled and disappeared into the shadows.
Buffy looked up quickly, but found nothing but light and shadow.

***

He had kicked off the covers hours ago. His eyes moved rapidly behind his closed eyelids and his head rolled back and forth against the sweat dampened pillow.
Images flashed across his mind and invaded his dreams. Laughter and screams, tears of joy and tears of pain. Opposing images crowded his subconscious. But one thing remained constant--their faces. Their expressions right before their deaths. Their eyes as they looked to him for help and he wasn't there.
His eyes flew open and he sat up, panting. Sweat trickled down his brow. He looked around the dark room, frantically searching for something to chase the ghosts away. But all he found was emptiness.
Quickly, he stood up and stretched his trembling limbs, running his hands over his face and through his damp hair. He had to get out of there—the walls were slowly closing in. And he could swear he heard voices—more than one, superimposed on each other—echoing from the shadows.
He slipped on his shoes, pulled a shirt over his head, and headed out the door.

***

She had waited for the police, answered their questions, sat through the lecture about being out alone at night, and had finally been allowed to go. They had wanted to escort her home, but she insisted on going alone. Her dorm was very nearby and she needed some air, she'd told them. They had reluctantly let her go.
She was still shaken up from her discovery, but moreso from the feeling that she had been meant to find the girl. She couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that the killer had been there watching her the whole time. And she had missed it.
The cross. The marking on the girl's cheek had shocked her. It was the last thing she expected to find on the victim of a vampire. But there it had been—distinct and unmistakable. She had to tell Giles about it, see what he could find out.
She also couldn't shake the feeling that she should already know who it was. But she couldn't put her finger on it. And it ate at her.
Her heart was heavy as she turned towards Stevenson.

***

He handed the clerk a dollar and leaned against the counter, scanning the front page of the last copy of the evening edition of the Sunnydale Tribune. The headline "Vampire Killer Claims Second Victim" screamed at him in large black letters from the top of the page.
He stifled a smile as the clerk opened the drawer to make change and said, "It's pretty creepy isn't it? Both victims drained of blood. Seems Sunnydale has its very own Dracula-wannabe. Do you believe in vampires?"
He looked over his shoulder and eyed the young clerk closely, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He smiled slightly. "Nah," he said softly. "There's no such thing as vampires." He looked at the young man's outstretched hand, the one that held his change. He waved it off. "Keep it," he said.
And he gave the clerk one last smile before leaving the store, chuckling softly to himself.

***

He didn't know why he had come here. Except that he felt compelled to. That was all. He had stepped out of Lowell and into the night, allowing his feet to carry him here.
He stood now, in the back of St. Peter's Church, gazing through the candlelight at the altar. The same altar where Christa's body had been found. He walked up the center aisle slowly, his pulse quickening with each step.
When he reached the front, he stopped. He looked into the eyes of the Savior, anger suddenly rising in his throat. Why? his eyes were asking, imploring Him. How could you let this happen?
His faith; it had never failed him. And now, when he needed it the most, it was slipping through his fingers. He clenched his hands into fists, subconsciously trying to maintain his grip on all that he believed.
He looked down towards the altar, no longer able to keep his eyes fixed on the face of Christ. But all he could see was her--her face, so peaceful yet scarred, her blonde hair cascading down the steps, shining golden in the rays of the early morning sunlight.
And he started to shake, bitter tears falling down his face, feelings of emptiness and despair filling his soul. He needed something to hold on to, but when he reached out, nothing was there.
"What can I do for you, son?"
Riley jerked his head around to face the source of the soft-spoken words.
A priest with a kind face stepped into the dim light, his eyes full of concern. And hope.
Riley grasped onto the hope he found in the clergyman's eyes, holding on to it for dear life.
"Help me, Father..." he whispered.

***

She had long since returned to Stevenson and had talked to Giles. He said he would look into it immediately. She had yet to hear from him.
Willow had asked very few questions, for which Buffy was grateful. Buffy looked over at her sleeping friend now, envious of her ability to put her cares away for a few hours.
But Buffy couldn't. She was watching. And waiting. And hoping that Giles would find something, anything that would shed some light on what she couldn't put her finger on. Never had a vampire outsmarted her or gotten the upper hand. They were never that smart—not even Spike.
A thought crept into her mind. Small at first but gradually growing in size, it began in the back of her consciousness and slowly pushed its way to the forefront.
And she started to tremble—violently and uncontrollably. There *was* someone who had always had the ability to get under her skin. Someone who always took pleasure in toying with her.
But it couldn't be him. It just couldn't.
The phone rang, pulling her from her panic. She reached for it blindly, grasping it tightly in her fingers. Pressing it to her ear, she whispered hoarsely, "Hello?" Her voice didn't sound like her own.
There was a pause on the other end. Then Giles' voice sounded softly and gravely from the other end. "Buffy, I..."
But Buffy cut him off. "I know," she said, her voice trembling. "Angelus..."

***

He looked at his growing shrine. He had never done anything like that before—collected articles pertaining to his work. But this time, it felt like the right thing to do. He wanted her to see them when she came here, to have them remind her of her failure. And she would come; he was sure of that.

***

The morning edition of the Tribune hit newsstands just as the earliest commuters hit the streets. They perused the front page as they drank their coffee, the report of "Third 'Vampire' Victim Found in Park" greeting them as they ate their bagels.
By midday, every drugstore and beauty salon in town had a run on dark hair coloring. The victims were all young and blonde. And every blonde woman in the city was in a hurry to make herself look as different from them as possible.
Sunnydale was under siege. And for the first time, the people took notice.

***

He had stayed up all night with Father O'Brien—talking, praying, crying. Trying to recapture the strength of faith that he was slowly losing. He didn't leave the church until the faintest rays of sunlight shone through the windows.

On his way back home, he felt better. More sure of himself and his beliefs than he had been a few hours before. And even though he was fatigued, he felt relaxed and more refreshed. Things started to make sense again.

The old priest had told him that God was still there, that He always had been and always would be. And that everything happened for a reason. Those girls' deaths—they were tragic, yes. But they were meant to be. They were with God now, where they belonged. There would be no more pain, no more suffering for them.

Riley had listened to his words, had let them sink in, and had allowed them to soothe him. He felt the warm hand touch his shoulder and heard the even tones of the priest's voice as he recited the scripture. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want..."

The priest's words surrounded him, filled him, shed light on his darkened soul. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me..."

Riley had kneeled until his knees hurt, had prayed until his voice was hoarse. It had been a long time since he had gotten so in touch with his religion.

But one brief moment worked to destroy a night's worth of work. When Riley walked into Lowell, he was greeted with the news that yet another girl had been murdered—Amanda Baxter, 19.

And suddenly Riley forgot the serenity he had found, as guilt replaced the peace of mind he had worked so hard to regain. Guilt because while he was spending the evening selfishly tending to his spiritual needs, another girl's life was being stolen.

He should have been out looking for her killer.

And instead, he had let her die.

***

Buffy's conscience was bothering her. Ever since her realization that Angelus had returned, she had been unable to think of anything else. She wondered what had happened. The last time she had seen Angel, he had been fine. What had gone wrong?

But none of that really mattered now, did it? All that mattered was that Angelus was back. And he was back because of her. Those girls were dead because of her.

Willow awakened to find Buffy sitting on her bed, her eyes wide, her body rocking slowly back and forth. She got up and sat next to her best friend, reaching a hand out apprehensively to touch her shoulder. Buffy's eyes looked towards her, but didn't focus. The tears rimmed her green eyes, lingering there, threatening to fall at any moment. Buffy held her hand out, opening it slowly and revealing what she had been gripping tightly for hours. The claddagh rested on her palm, its design pressed into her skin.

Willow eyed her friend closely. Angel had been gone for months now and she thought Buffy was finally starting to let go.

"Oh Buffy..."

***

The anticipation was almost too much to bear. He was pacing again, his footsteps resounding loudly through the spacious mansion.

His next move would be a definitive one. No more cat-and-mouse. They would finally meet face-to-face.

And then the real fun would begin.

***

Class was unbearable. But he had to keep up appearances, go through the motions. He couldn't let the world see that he was falling apart. So he sat at his desk at the side of the classroom and busied himself with looking busy.

Every now and then he looked up and surveyed the faces in front of him. All of them young, all of them accusing. Amanda Baxter—she had been in this class. He had graded her papers, had spoken with her during office hours. And now she was gone.

He looked at each empty seat and wondered if it had at one time been occupied by Amanda. Was the girl next to that empty seat a friend of hers? Did she have any friends?

Then his eyes fell upon something that made his blood run cold. Another empty seat. Only this one was next to Willow Rosenberg. Buffy Summers' friend. Buffy Summers—the girl that he would spend the fifty minutes of class daydreaming about. It used to be that all he could think about was her lovely smile. But at that moment, all he could see was her face—carved up and bloodless.

His heart pounded in his ears as he stared at the empty chair, letting his imagination and the reality of what he'd seen in the last three days carry him away. And suddenly the world went to spinning. He couldn't breathe and all he wanted to do was run.

So he did.

He pushed away from his desk and stood up, letting his chair fall to the floor behind him. And he fled quickly, ignoring the stares that followed after him.

***

She had spent the day hiding—from the world, from herself. Although the latter had proven difficult. Willow had wanted to stay with her, but Buffy had insisted she go. She needed to be alone. And in her solitude, there was nothing to keep her company but her thoughts.

She realized now that she had never gotten over her fear of Angelus. Nor had she completely moved past her love for Angel. And the first time around, the love of one had prevented the killing of the other. Because she couldn't separate the two. Here was this demon who tormented her and her friends and did so with a song in his heart. But he had the face, the voice, the body of her beloved. And that was all she could see.

Now, as she patrolled—not really patrolled, but waited--she fought to find the courage to face him that she had struggled to find all that time ago. But her search was interrupted by a sense of dread in the pit of her stomach.

And a voice.

"Hello, lover."

***

"I'm fine." He was insistent. Walsh, Forrest, even Graham had all questioned his mental state. And it angered him to know that the self-control he was so proud of was cracking. And that it was that obvious.

"I'm fine," he said again, though no one had said a word to the contrary. It was more of a declaration to himself than anything.

Walsh studied him closely, looking into his eyes and searching for what she hoped to find. Riley shifted uncomfortably under her scrutinizing gaze, but maintained eye contact. He set his jaw determinedly. Seemingly satisfied that what she found behind his eyes was the eye of the storm, she sighed and backed away.

"Very well," she said slowly. She gave him one last look-over. "You may go. But be careful, Riley. We need you."

He nodded silently and deliberately, then turned and walked away. Walsh shared a knowing look with Forrest and Graham before dismissing them.

***

She had heard those words before—years ago, though at that moment it felt like yesterday. She looked up into the eyes that so many times she had gotten lost in. But they were darker, more menacing. And they bore into hers, stealing her breath.

"Miss me?" he said, taking a step closer. "'Cause I sure have missed you..."

Buffy swallowed the fear that she tried hard to control. She spoke her first words of the night. "A-Angel...Angelus..." she whispered.

He smiled. "It's nice to know that you haven't forgotten me, lover. I would really be hurt if you had..."

The smile, the face. His face—Angel's face. The one that she had dreamed about since she watched him walk away that smoky night a few months ago. Here it was again, right in front of her. The face of her beloved on a cold-blooded killer.

"Why?" she managed, unable to tear her eyes away.

He took another step closer. "I needed some amusement. And you have always amused me..." His voice was soft and his low, even tones lulled her senses.

His fingers brushed her cheek as he pushed her hair away and they danced lightly across the tangled scar on her neck. "I see you still wear my mark," he said. Then he smiled again, his dark eyes twinkling with delight. "What a night that was...The way you gave yourself to me for the second time..." His thumb brushed across the sensitive area again and he felt her shiver.

He chuckled softly. "You like that, don't you?" He was enjoying the reaction his touch elicited in her. "You're a part of me, lover. Your blood flows through my veins."

"That was for Angel, not you." Her voice was nothing more than a whisper.

He leaned in closer, his mouth inches from her ear. "You still don't get it, do you? He and I...we're one and the same. He always had that desire, that hunger to kill. He chose to ignore it, but it was always there. I, on the other hand, choose to give into those desires."

She felt his breath on her skin, warm despite the coolness of his body. And she shuddered. "I won't let you hurt anyone else," she stated weakly, in an attempt to regain her composure. His nearness was clouding her mind.

He pulled back, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "How noble of you. Sticking up for the underdog. Champion of the people, is that it?" He chuckled softly. "What are you going to do? Stop me?" He reached down and pulled the small wooden weapon from her belt loop, hefting it lightly in his hands before holding it out to her. He eyed her closely. "Well, here's your chance. Go ahead."

Buffy stood in place, unable to move. Her eyes went from his face, to the weapon he offered her, and back to his face. His expression was solemn though his eyes were laughing at her. She reached out and slowly gripped the stake in her fingers, her eyes never leaving his.

He leaned in again, the point pressing into his skin, above his heart. And he whispered in her ear. "I love you."

Those words pierced through the armor around her heart and she began to shake. And suddenly all she could remember was a time long ago—another lifetime, it seemed—when she had heard those same words, in that same voice. Right before she shoved a sword in his gut and sent him to Hell. She had killed him then because she'd had to. And she had to now.

But she couldn't.

She squeezed her eyes shut and lowered the stake to her side, letting it hang loosely from her fingers. And she heard him chuckle and felt his soft lips brush across her neck, grazing the scar.

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

***

He was there one moment and gone the next. Graham had picked up the vampire on the scanner and the three commandos had followed its trail. The vamp hadn't moved; it was just hovering there, very close to a human.
They closed in on it, moving quickly through the darkness. But they lost its trail right before they stepped into the clearing. And when they got there, all they found was a young woman. She was just standing there, staring blankly ahead of her.
Buffy. Riley recognized her in an instant and could see that she was trembling. And without thinking, he went to her, ignoring the protests of his partners. All that was driving him, the sole source of power behind the movements of his limbs, was his need to protect her.
He walked up to her, tiny in the faint moonlight. She didn't seem to notice he was there.
"Buffy..." he whispered, his voice choked with relief that the visions he had had in class that day were nothing more than figments of his imagination. She looked so fragile and...broken. That was it; she looked broken.
She looked at him, focusing on his face for the first time that night. She studied his features as if she was trying to remember where she had seen him before. And she started to sob.
Riley watched, motionless, as this small, beautiful girl shook with sadness, as the weight of her pain dragged her down. And suddenly he felt as though he understood.
He reached for, gently touching her face with his fingertips.
She looked at him again, her wide green eyes rimmed with tears. And she held out her hand, the one that still held the stake. Her expression begged him to take it. Please, she was saying. It hurts too much to hold it.
Riley looked at the object offered to him in her outstretched hand. And he took it and asked no questions. The way she was looking at him, the desperation etched in her face, was all he needed.
"It's okay," he whispered to her. "It's okay."
But she didn't respond. She just blinked and shook her head. Then she did something that took him by surprise.
She hugged him.
He felt her arms go around him, felt her fingers grasp handfuls of his uniform, felt her move against him as she cried into his chest.
And he let her cry. He circled his arms around her and smoothed her hair, closing his eyelids against the flood raging behind his own eyes.

***

Angelus watched as Buffy fell apart. He stood a few yards behind the two remaining soldiers, observing the scene between the two lost souls. She was destined to protect the world from the likes of him. And there she was, bawling her eyes out.

He smiled to himself, pleased at the weakness he was witnessing. She was the only one with the power to do battle with him. And she was powerless.
He knew that this would be fun.

***

"What do you mean he's gone?" Her voice was stern.
Forrest bolstered himself. "We found Buffy Summers alone in the park. He went to her. Then he left with her. I assume he took her home."
Walsh was furious. "You assume? You didn't follow him or try to stop him?"
Graham interjected. "If you had seen him, ma'am. His eyes...He was out of it."
"All the more reason to bring him back here, Agent Miller." Walsh glared at him. "Agent Finn is vital to this operation. We cannot lose him. And we definitely can't afford to let him go galavanting off with pretty blonde coeds." She paused and took a breath, calming her growing annoyance. She looked at the two soldiers carefully. "You better hope that he returns soon, gentlemen. Because I'm holding you personally responsible if he doesn't."
Forrest and Graham just nodded silently.

***

She hadn't said a word since the park. He had offered to take her home, but she had refused, shaking her head silently and taking him by the hand. He had followed without argument.
They sat now in the basement of what used to be Sunnydale High School, silently taking comfort in each other's presence. Buffy sat with her back against a fallen beam, her knees drawn up to her chest. And she stared ahead
of her, barely blinking.
Riley sat a few feet away, observing her, absently playing with the stake in his hand. The stake she had given to him. And he wondered about the story behind it. Why had she had it? And what did she know? But most importantly, who was she?
None of it seemed to matter at that moment. For he had plenty of questions of his own to answer. All that was important was the beautiful, sad girl in front of him; that she was alright.
His heart was breaking just watching her. But at the same time, he felt a sense of peace. Because she *was* alright—at least she was alive—and that was more than he'd seen lately.
He wanted to help her. Perhaps she would let him.
And maybe she could help him too.

***

Above them, the rest of the world continued its routine of panic. Women who used to be blonde were now brunette and they traveled together in groups of two or more. Escorts were provided free of charge to women who had no choice but to walk home at night after work or class. Buses offered extended service far into the night and the police were more visible than they ever had been, patrolling every street corner and darkened alley.
The majority of conversation revolved around small talk—sports, stocks, the
weather—as a way to escape the harsh reality. Maybe if they didn't talk about it, it would no longer be true. Except that when they turned on their televisions and unfolded their newspapers, there it was.
There was no denying it.

***

The sunlight peeked in through the cracks in the dirty windows high above their heads. Buffy stirred and opened her eyes, becoming frantic when she didn't see Riley. She started to whimper.
Then she felt a hand on her arm. She snapped her head around and found Riley's eyes staring into hers.
"Shh," he said soothingly. "I'm here."
She relaxed and pushed herself up into a sitting position. She covered his hand with hers and gave him a small smile.
He returned the gesture, the first real smile that had graced his face in days.
"Hungry?" he asked her gently. "I got us some food while you were sleeping."
A look of panic flashed in her eyes briefly at the realization that he had left her alone. But just as quickly as it started, it ended. And she nodded her head fervently in response to his question.
He had hated to leave her, especially in her condition. She had finally fallen asleep around two o'clock. And he had sat watching her, fighting off his own fatigue in order to be her eyes and ears. And her voice, if need be.
She had been in the middle of a nightmare when he'd returned, writhing and calling out in her sleep. He had gone to her and knelt by her side, wanting to be there in case she reached out. And he was only able to make out two words, which she kept repeating over and over as tears squeezed out beneath her closed eyelids.
"Angel...no..."
But he couldn't watch anymore. He wanted to ease her pain. So he pressed his palm lightly against her hot forehead. And she calmed. She murmured softly at his touch and stopped writhing. And gradually her breathing returned to its normal rhythm.
He had stayed by her for the rest of the night, watching her sleep, calming her when the terrors behind her eyelids were too much for her to bear. And when she woke up and realized that she was not alone—the smile that curved her lips was priceless.
They sat in silence, eating their makeshift breakfast. She—a bag of cheetos and a warm coke, he—a moonpie and a bottle of YooHoo. He was leaning against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him, one leg bent, his arm resting on his knee, the bottle of chocolate soda dangling from his hand. And he was watching her, continuing his vigil from the night before.
She ate voraciously, looking at him periodically with gratitude in her eyes. Then she did something else that shocked him.
She burped.
The look in her eyes as they widened was precious—a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. And Riley couldn't help but laugh. His eyes danced as he shook with laughter. Soon, Buffy joined in and for the first time in hours, they weren't plagued by their personal demons.
But it didn't last long. The sound of Riley's radio broke their moment of levity.
"9-1-1. Please state your emergency."
"Yes, I was just out walking my dog and I came across...I found two girls...crosses on their cheeks...I think they're dead..."
Riley moved quickly, nearly jumping the few feet to where his radio was sitting on top of a pile of his gear. He grabbed it and shut it off, staring at it as his fingers curled tightly around it. He turned around when he heard something hit the ground.
Buffy had dropped her soda can and was slowly inching backwards, curling up into a tight ball when she reached the fallen beam. She was whispering something over and over again, almost inaudibly, and Riley had to move closer to make out the words.
She was shaking her head, tears falling unrestricted from her terrified eyes.
"I killed them...I killed them...I killed them..."
Riley just watched helplessly, silently kicking himself for leaving his radio on.
***

Again with the pacing. It was a habit he'd acquired back in the old days. As long as his feet were moving, so was his mind. And his steps were in time with the ticking of the clock, helping him mark time—each trip across the room was 15 seconds, four trips was a minute, 240 trips an hour. Every step brought him closer to the dusk.
The last two girls had been easy and had made the statement he was hoping for—that her weakness led to their deaths. He personally didn't care if any of the girls he'd killed lived or died. It wasn't personal. But he knew that she would care and that was what was important. That she knew and cared was everything. Her humanity would mean her downfall.
He certainly knew how that felt.
She was terrified and guilt-stricken and ready to break. He couldn't stop now; not when he was so close to his goal. No, he must continue.
He stopped his steady pacing long enough to gaze at the faces on his wall. They all looked the same to him, for she was all he could see.
Tonight, he would begin phase two of his plan.
He would draw her out.

***

"Oh my God..." The words rang through the still air of Giles' living room.
Willow stood up, suddenly unable to sit still. Upon her request and the fact that Buffy had not returned home last night, the Scoobies had gathered at Giles' house.
And the bomb that was Angelus had just been dropped in their laps.
"Oh my God..." she said again, starting, then stopping, then starting her pacing again.
"Now we can't be sure it's him, Willow. There was another vampire in the records that marked his victims with the cross—Penn. He was sired by Angelus..." Giles didn't believe a word he was saying, but he said it anyway.
Willow looked at him, wanting to believe him, but not being able to. "If you had seen her, Giles, you..."
But Xander interrupted her. "Let's call Angel. If he answers, then we'll know it's not Angelus, right?" His voice held the hope that his eyes lacked.
Giles closed his eyes briefly and let out his breath. "I did," he stated solemnly.
"And?" Xander inquired urgently.
"There was no answer..." He let his voice taper off, his words lingering in the growing tension.

***

She had calmed enough to let him near her. And he sat next to her, not touching her, but just close enough to where he could feel her warmth.
He had asked her if there was anyone she wanted him to call for her. She hadn't answered. He asked her again—"What about Willow? I'm sure she's worried about you." Buffy had looked up and paused, her eyes widening with recognition. But after a moment of contemplation, she had simply shaken her head again. Riley had sighed and said, "Okay." Buffy had nodded in appreciation of his understanding.
He wished she knew why she wouldn't talk, what trauma kept her trapped inside herself. But he wasn't going to push. He could certainly understand the overwhelming desire to hide away, to forget the rest of the world. He felt the same way. In fact, at that moment, there was no place he would rather be than in that basement with her.
He was holding on too tightly to her, he knew that. He realized that the moment she retreated behind the walls of her mind, after the shocking news they'd heard on the radio. The way he felt a part of himself retreat within her as well. And he also knew it wasn't fair to her. She had enough wounds of her own that needed healing. He shouldn't expect her to heal his as well.
But he couldn't help it. She had reached out to him in her time of need, had let him in, even if it was just to help her chase her demons away for a while. But it was enough for both of them. And she was something tangible he could put his faltering faith into. She was real. She gave him what he had failed to find in God of late—a reason for his life.
As long as she needed him, he would be there. And perhaps if he could help her, he would find the peace he'd been searching for.
Fatigue weighed heavily on his eyelids and he yawned, leaning his back against the beam. He felt her hand touch his and he looked at her. She stretched her legs out in front of her and patted her lap. He gave her a questioning look. She spoke in pseudo-sign language—pointing to him, then putting her hands together and placing them against her cheek, then patting her lap again.
He understood. She wanted him to sleep. He shook his head. "I'm fine, Buffy. I don't need to sleep. But you go ahead and rest."
She shook her head vehemently and tugged at his arm. He sighed and reluctantly scooted over and laid down, placing his head in her lap. He felt her fingers slowly work through his hair, easing out the tangles. The rhythmic movement soothed him and in no time he was asleep.

***

Ever since she returned home from Giles', she had had the feeling that she was being watched. But every time she looked outside, she saw nothing. Which didn't necessarily mean anything. Angelus was an expert at hiding in plain sight. He was probably out there now, watching her.
She fought back the chills that threatened to run up her spine. And she nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone rang. Breathlessly, she picked it up.
"H-Hello?"
"We have a package for Willow Rosenberg at the front desk. Tell her she can pick it up at any time..."
Willow's breath returned to her and she swallowed the lump in her throat. "Okay. Thanks." She hung up the phone and closed her eyes.
Come on, Will. Get a hold of yourself.
She grabbed her keys and went downstairs. Signing for the small, plainly wrapped box, she sat down in the lobby and opened it.
Inside the box was a piece of paper rolled up like a scroll and tied with a remnant of a scarf. She reached in with a trembling hand and grasped the mysterious gift in her fingers. The scarf; she recognized it. It used to belong to Buffy. And she held her breath as she untied and unrolled the parchment.
Her breath exited her lungs in a loud rush and she let out a stifled cry. Headstones--eight of them. All in a row. Each one with a name--Christa, Sharon, Amanda, Katie, Michelle. But the last three names made her heart stop.
Cordelia, Wesley, ... and Buffy.

***

She was screaming and he was holding her down. She kept struggling under his grip, her hair falling in all directions. Tears soaked her terrified face and she flailed helplessly under his strength.
He was killing her.
Riley's eyes flew open in a panic. And he sat up, reaching blindly through the darkness for her, his breath coming in ragged gasps and the sweat stinging his eyes.
"Buffy!" he choked out hoarsely, overcome with fear and an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
She touched his arm and he turned to face her, catching the outline of her face in the moonlight. Tears of relief flooded his eyes as he pulled her to him in a tight embrace, pressing her body to his. He felt her arms circle his neck, her fingers tangle through his hair, and he buried his face in her shoulder, sobbing.
"Oh God, Buffy..." he managed, curling his fingers into her back, grasping bunches of her shirt in his fists. "He was...and I couldn't protect you...I couldn't protect any of them..." His whole body shook with his cries and he felt her arms tighten around him. "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..." And he cried until there were no more tears.
She let him go only when she felt his arms relax around her. She pushed away and looked into his eyes, her own wet with tears. She cupped his face gently in her hands, wiping his tears away softly with her thumbs. And she smiled.
Riley's heart broke when he saw that. Here was this girl—so fragile and so full of pain that she couldn't even speak. And she was comforting him, trying to bring peace back to his aching soul. It didn't seem right.
He touched her face, blocking the trail of the tear that was rolling down her cheek with the tip of his finger and brushing it away.
"I wish that I could help you..." he whispered, letting the words hang in the air between them.
She leaned in and pressed her lips softly against his forehead. He closed his eyes. She moved to his eyes, his cheeks, and finally to his lips, where she remained for a long moment.
She drew back slightly, exhaling in a slow, steady stream. Riley could feel the warm, damp air against his skin and he opened his eyes. He made as if to speak, but Buffy silenced him with a finger to his lips. She shook her head slightly and sat back.
And Riley watched silently as Buffy began unbuttoning her shirt—slowly, one tiny button at a time. He was entranced with the way the moonlight danced across her skin and with the way her eyes never left his face. She dropped her hands and inched closer, the front of her shirt completely open. Riley could see the soft swells of her breasts as they rose and fell with each breath.
She reached for his hand—her small one even tinier next to his large one—and pressed it to her heart. And he felt the familiar rhythm beneath his fingers and the soft, silky skin against his own.
She returned the favor, pressing her hand to his chest and searching for that familiar sign of life. Of strength. Of vitality. And when she felt the steady beating beneath her fingertips, she closed her eyes, content in the knowledge that there was another living soul so close to her own. Lone tears rolled silently down her face.
Riley kissed them away, tasting their salty sweetness on his lips. And suddenly he felt himself drowning in her, as she blocked out the rest of the world and became his only reality, his only truth.
She clung to him, wanting, needing to lose herself in his eyes, his arms, his touch. She needed him to push her pain away, even if only for a little while.

***

Angelus could afford to be patient. That was the beauty of being immortal—he had nothing but time. But despite this luxury, he couldn't contain his own excitement.
He had done his part--sent them each a little something to remember him by. Something they were sure to show the Slayer. Something that would bring her to him.
She would be here; he could feel it.
All he had to do was wait.

***

The streets of Sunnydale were deserted, the glow of the streetlamps illuminating the empty sidewalks. Since the last two murdered girls had been found, the city had ceased to function after dark—stores closed early, people barricaded themselves inside their homes. And the only things roaming the town were animals and those that hunted them.
An eerie stillness descended upon the city.

***

The three people sitting in the small dorm room were silent. They had gathered there two hours before, each sharing with the others their "gift" from Angelus. They were all the same—the same picture wrapped with remnants of the same scarf.
Willow sat on Buffy's bed, hugging Mr. Gordo tightly to her chest. Xander sat beside her, his trademark sarcasm failing him. Giles sat across from them, on Willow's bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His voice—the one of reason and logic—was as silent as the others'.
Cordelia. Wesley. Two more casualties in Angelus' personal war. But the tears for their fallen friends didn't come. Perhaps they would later. But for now, there was nothing more that could be done for them.
And still no word from Buffy. They tried not to think the worst, but they expected it. Life in Sunnydale and memories of The Days of Angelus, Part One had conditioned them to see the glass as half empty.
Or completely empty, as the case may be.

***

They lay on the floor, nothing but an old, worn-out blanket between their bodies and the dusty concrete.
They lay entwined—her head on his chest and his arm around her protectively. She was sleeping peacefully, the nightmares that had plagued her the night before seemingly giving her a respite this night.
Riley was grateful. She needed her rest. And though he himself was exhausted, he couldn't tear his eyes away from her face. She had spoken to him. Not with words—for the soft moans she'd made in his ear had been the first sounds he'd heard her make in hours. No, she had spoken to him with actions, with wordless declarations. She had offered herself to him and had trusted him enough to lay bare the tattered shreds of her soul. All for the sake of easing his. How was it possible that this tiny, sadly beautiful girl
could herself be so empty and yet still offer him so much?
He brushed her hair off her shoulder, gently twisting the soft tresses between his fingers. That's when he saw it, sparkling in the faint moonlight. He had never noticed it before. But now, her body revealed to him, he saw it for the first time.
Her cross.
That symbol had occupied his thoughts so many times in the last few days, in so many different contexts—faith, death, doubt, anger, and now...what could he call it? Love? Was he in love with this fragile girl sleeping against him? He couldn't say.
He grasped the small silver charm in his fingers and rubbed it with his thumb pensively. He had been struggling to hold on to his faith, asking himself if it was really worth believing when it seemed He had forgotten them all. And just when he had resigned himself to the fact that he had only been fooling himself into believing in something that didn't exist, here comes a little reminder that perhaps there was a God after all.
He kissed the top of her head and closed his eyes, finally allowing sleep to overtake him.

***
He had spent the day getting ready for her arrival. And now he was prepared.
The blood in his veins grew warmer--she was close. He sat back in the chair and stretched his tense muscles.
Looking around, he smiled. Everything was perfect.
And he was ready.

***

When she opened her eyes and felt his body—a body that produced its own
warmth—beneath her skin and heard the steady beating of his heart under her ear, she felt relief wash over her.
But what provided her with even more comfort was the simple fact that he was there. She had shared what was left of herself with him and he had accepted it without question. The fact that he was there, holding her when she opened her eyes, was enough.
She carefully and reluctantly removed his arm from around her and sat up. She looked at his face, beautiful in the glow of the moon, and smiled at the peaceful expression that softened his features.
Two nights ago, in the park, she had seen in his eyes what she had felt in her heart—loneliness and a desperate need to escape. So they had escaped together, each asking no more of the other than they were willing to give. They had left the big questions unanswered, content to seek answers to the smaller ones—would you stay with me? hold my hand when I get scared? be my world for a little while?
Two days had passed. And two nights. And now it was time to go. She had been hiding long enough. He—Angelus—was waiting for her. And she must go to him. She had come face-to-face with her inner demons and Riley had helped her fight them.
But now it was time to face another demon.
She stood and dressed quickly, never taking her eyes from Riley's face. She knelt down next to him and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. He stirred but did not awaken.
She pressed her lips to his forehead softly, then pulled back and wrote something with her finger in the dust beside his head.
"Goodbye."
She stood and left quietly.

***

The overwhelming sounds of silence pulsated through the early dawn. Buffy walked slowly but with purpose. She had to fight the urge with every step to turn around and run back to the anonymity of the basement, back to where she didn't have to explain herself or deal with reality.
But she continued to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, gradually closing the gap between where she wanted to be and where she had to be. And the closer she got to her ultimate destination, the less she thought of other things. Until there was only one thing on her mind.
Angelus.

***

The four eyes widened when they spotted her. There she was—pretty and blonde and alone. The favorite flavor of their friendly neighborhood undead serial killer. But even more relevant to them was the fact that their missing comrade was nowhere around.
Graham moved to get up, to go after her. But Forrest's hand on his arm stopped him. He looked over, meeting the dark brown eyes staring back at him.
"Don't you dare," Forrest whispered harshly.
Graham replied defensively, "We can't just let her wander around by herself."
Forrest shrugged, looking over his shoulder at Buffy, who was getting farther away with each passing second, then back to Graham. "Does she look like she's wandering to you? No, she's definitely headed somewhere." He paused and looked at her again. "Maybe to Finn. Let's go."
And the two of them started to follow her.

***

The shriek of the ringing phone cut through the thick silence. Willow flinched, looked around quickly at the other two people in the room, and reached for the receiver, pressing it to her ear.
"Buffy?" she answered urgently, her heart pounding in her ears so loudly that she could barely hear the voice on the other end.
"Shit..." it croaked and Willow could hear air as it left lungs in a loud rush. Then a click.
"Hello?" she asked nervously.
Nothing.

***

Riley stared at the phone in his hand, his fingers gripping it so tightly that his knuckles were white. He had awakened to find himself alone and had searched the darkness for her. No Buffy. It took all the strength he could muster just to call the operator for her number.
Then he found her message. It was just one word—"Goodbye"—but it told him more than a thousand words ever could. She was gone. The letters stood out even more as the faintest rays of sunlight streamed through the windows. He stared at them again, reading the word over and over until it ricocheted around in his head.
There was something daunting and ominous in the simplicity of her message. Did she mean goodbye for now or forever? He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
His heart pounding, he began pulling on his clothes. He had to find her.
Okay, he thought, trying to calm himself. She's not home. Where else could she be? Think, Finn, think. But he didn't have a clue where to start looking.
Tying up his last boot lace, he started to run out the door. But he stopped and ran back, suddenly feeling the need for a weapon. Digging through his gear, he grabbed his pistol and shoved it in the waistband of his pants.
Then he went to grab the stake from the spot where he'd last left it.
But it was gone.

***

They followed her through the park, past the cemetery, and into the woods onthe edge of town. She hadn't stopped for anything and her steady strides hadn't faltered once.
She stepped through the trees and into a clearing, the two soldiers a few yards behind. She was headed towards the old abandoned mansion.
"So that's where Finn's been hiding," Forrest said absently. He looked at Graham, eyebrows raised. Graham just shrugged.
They watched as she ascended the front steps one at a time and were about to follow suit when Forrest's phone rang. He sighed in annoyance and put the phone to his ear.
"Gates," he said shortly.
Professor Walsh's authoritative voice rang through from the other end. "Agent Finn has just used his cell phone to call Buffy Summers' dorm room. The call was traced to within a half-mile radius surrounding the old Sunnydale High School remains. I want you to find him and bring him to me. Understood?"
Forrest's confused look as he turned his head back towards the mansion did not go unnoticed by Graham. He touched Forrest's arm and put his palms up as if to ask, "Well?"
Shrugging him off, Forrest answered "Yes ma'am" into the phone and snapped it shut, placing it back in his pocket. He looked at the mansion again, his mind working. Then he looked back at Graham.
"We gotta go," he said quickly. "Seems Finn ain't with our girl Buffy here. Walsh wants us to fetch him and bring him to her."
"She knows where he is?" Graham asked, looking at the old mansion briefly before turning and following Forrest. Buffy was no longer in sight.
Forrest grunted. "More or less."

***

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd make it," Angelus said, his back to her. He didn't have to turn around to know she was there.
Buffy stood just inside the doorway, her fists clenched against her sides. And for the first time in days, she found her voice.
"You knew I'd be here."
He chuckled--that same maniacal laugh that had haunted her dreams. And he turned around to face her. "Indeed I did, lover. Because I know you—how you think, what you feel, what you feel *like*..." A smile etched across his deceivingly angelic face.
Buffy let that comment pass. She took another step inside and looked around. There were candles burning all around the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls and accentuating Angelus' deep-set eyes. She continued to walk further into the room, taking it all in.
She remembered every inch of this place—every room, every corner, every chip of paint. It had always held so much meaning for her. And she hadn't been back since Angel left. It was just too hard to remember things as they used to be and to think about all the things she couldn't have. So she had just stayed away.
Her eyes fell upon his shrine and she stopped. Five smiling faces stared back at her from above the fireplace, each one representing a life that she couldn't save. And she swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.
His voice drew her back to the present and she looked at him. "They really do look a lot like you, don't they?" He paused, drawing out his words. "Or I guess I should say they *did*..." The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, making his eyes dance.
"Yes, they did," she said simply, keeping her gaze focused on his face. She kept her voice low. "And you're a coward. Killing innocent girls because you can't have the one you want." Her green eyes flashed in the soft light.

Angelus put his hands up in feigned surrender, the maddening smile all the while adorning his face. "Ooh...I see someone's regained possession of her backbone." He took a step forward, now only a few feet away from her. "That's okay. I just love a challenge..."
Buffy watched silently as he drew his finger slowly back and forth through the flame of the candle next to him. He was playing his usual games with her—showing her that he wasn't afraid.
Especially not of her.

***

He was running and calling out her name, his eyes searching frantically for her.
"Buffy!" His voice took on a high tone and didn't sound like his own. "Buffy!"
A hand grabbed his arm and he spun around, gripping the shoulders of his captor for support. He looked into familiar eyes—Forrest's.
"Whoa, brother. Slow down. Where's the fire?" Forrest asked lightly, letting go of Riley's arm.
Riley blinked and took a step back. His mind was racing and he could barely form a coherent thought.
"Buffy," he said quickly, backing away. "I have to find her..." And he turned to go.
Forrest grabbed his arm again. "Not right now, you're not. I've got orders to take you to Walsh. She's been bitchier than usual since you went AWOL." He studied Riley's face closely.
"Later," Riley said, shaking his head. "Buffy's in danger..."
Forrest didn't relinquish his arm. "She's fine," he said, immediately regretting it.
Riley's eyes grew wide. "You saw her? Where?" he asked urgently, yanking his arm away.
"Nowhere. Now let's go," Forrest answered flatly, reaching for Riley's arm again.
But Riley backed away. "Tell me where she is."
"I don't know," Forrest answered, lying. "Now let's go. You know how Walsh gets when she's left waiting." And he took a step closer to Riley, reaching his hand out as if to usher Riley back to base. But all he got was a gun barrel in his face.
Riley held the pistol tightly in his hand and pointed it at Forrest. He took a breath. "Tell me where she is or I kill you. Your choice." His voice was low and even.
Forrest clenched his jaw. "I'm not telling you."
The click of metal against metal as Riley cocked the gun was deafening in the thick silence of the early morning. "Last chance," he muttered.
Graham finally spoke up. "Last time we saw her, she was at the old mansion on the edge of town," he said quietly. Forrest groaned disapprovingly beside
him.
Riley looked at Graham, seemingly noticing him for the first time that night. "The mansion?" he asked absently.
Graham nodded and opened his mouth to say something, but Riley was already gone.
Forrest moved to go after him and angrily turned on Graham when he felt Graham's fingers tighten around his arm. "What the hell are you doing?" he spat.
"Let him go," Graham responded simply.

***

The people of Sunnydale would soon be getting ready for their day. Life moved on despite the fear that consumed them. It was easier to forget in the harsh light of day about the terrors awaiting them after dark.
Slowly, people opened their eyes, one at a time, and peeked cautiously into the face of the day.
Maybe today would be the day all the madness would end.

***

Buffy looked at him squarely. "I'm sick of your games, Angelus. This ends tonight."
He stared at her for a moment, tilting his head to the side slightly and looking her up and down. She looked the same as she did three nights ago—her stance, her face, her clothes. She was wearing the same clothes and he realized that she hadn't been home since he had last seen her.
And now he knew exactly how to erase the determination he saw flash in her eyes.
"I see your friends aren't here," he said slowly and deliberately. "I wonder why..." He smiled slightly.
Buffy shifted uncomfortably and her face fell almost imperceptibly. But Angelus noticed it and it told him that she had not spoken to them recently. So he continued.
"The redhead put up quite a struggle. She was stronger than she looked. And she gave out a rather loud scream before I snapped her neck..." He snuffed the flame out between his fingers and moved to the next one, never taking his eyes off her.
Buffy felt her stomach tighten at his words and she swallowed down the growing lump in her throat.
"The boy was such a disappointment, though," he continued, walking slowly through the maze of candles and putting them out one by one. The room got darker by the second. "He tried to be brave with his tough words and all. But in the end, he pissed himself like a child. What a let down..."
Feeling her resolve start to break, Buffy closed her eyes. "No..." she whispered.
Angelus grinned widely at her reaction. He watched triumphantly as her shoulders slumped and she bowed her head. He had inserted the knife. Now all he had to do was twist it.
"The old man was rather entertaining. Kept quoting the Bible in Latin. I didn't know he was a religious man. Funny, the things you discover about a person right before you kill them. What is that saying? 'Therein death lies the truth.'"
The only light in the room was the glow from the fireplace. The thick black curtains blocked the early morning sunlight. Buffy felt tears sting her eyes as she shook her head. "You're lying..." she said weakly.
He was behind her; she could feel his breath on her neck as he leaned in and whispered, "Too bad you'll never know, will you? Because you're right. This does end tonight."
But when she turned to face him, he was gone. She peered into the shadows, but saw nothing. He was dancing that same maddeningly slow dance with her that he had in the park that night. He was close, hovering, but she couldn't see him.
Buffy spun on her heels when she heard a familiar voice scream her name.
Riley stood in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the early morning sky. "Buffy, thank God..." he said, taking a step towards her.
She put a hand up and shook her head, trying to stop him. "Riley. Don't."
The door slammed shut and instinctively, Riley spun around and pointed the gun he still held in his hand at the culprit.
Angelus smiled at him. "Well, look who we have here. If it isn't Buffy's soldier boy from the park. Fancy meeting you here." He stood in front of the door, gazing amusedly at Riley.
"Who the hell are you?" Riley asked angrily.
Buffy answered softly from behind him, "He killed those girls."
Riley was taken aback slightly by her words and he looked over his shoulder at her. But as soon as he did, Angelus pounced, grabbing the gun and pinning Riley's arms behind his back, pressing the gun to his temple. Riley struggled under his grasp. He stared at Buffy through the dim light, silently begging her to explain.
She held his gaze for a moment before turning her eyes towards his captor. "Let him go," she said evenly, her jaw clenched.
Angelus chuckled. "Now why would I do that? We've barely gotten to know each other." He tightened his grip on Riley's arms. "Have we?" he asked, directing it at Riley.
Struggling against his restraints, Riley spat bitterly, "Go to hell."
"No thanks," Angelus replied lightly. "I've been there. Really not worth a return trip." He inhaled deeply. "What is that scent?" he asked, sniffing Riley again. Then he smiled knowingly. "Ah, yes. I know that scent well. Post-coitus Buffy..."
Riley's eyes never left Buffy's face. And until that moment, her face had been like a mask—never changing expressions. But at the vampire's words, he saw her eyes cloud up, saw the thin lines crease her forehead.
"It took a week to wash that stench off completely," Angelus continued. "And she had been so willing. So soft and warm and...virginal. Was she ready for you? 'Cause she was just *aching* for me..." He spoke slowly, letting his words sink in.
Riley felt more nauseated with every word and closed his eyes. He couldn't stand to look at Buffy any longer—the way she kept sinking further into herself, the way she bowed her head and couldn't look at him anymore. He knew that what the vampire was saying was the truth.
"My favorite part was when she came—the way she arched into me, her eyes rolling back into her head. The way she moaned my name," Angelus explained, leaning in and whispering in Riley's ear, "Oh, Angel..."
Riley's eyes flew open. He recognized that name—Angel. Buffy had muttered it in her sleep, when she cried out during her nightmares. And he suddenly became filled with rage, finally being able to put a face with the name—a face that had haunted them both though he hadn't recognized it.
And despite the gun pressed to his temple, he started struggling again. "You sick bastard," he said through clenched teeth. He looked at Buffy. She lifted her eyes and met his wearily.
Angelus leaned in and whispered in Riley's ear again, keeping his eyes on Buffy's face. "It may have been your lips she kissed, but it was my face she saw..."
Riley studied Buffy's face; the way it changed expressions so rapidly from one of sadness to one of embarrassment to one of anger. But the tears that he saw welled up in her eyes remained constant.
And he had seen and heard enough.
He reared back and slammed the back of his head into Angelus' forehead, taking the vampire by surprise. Angelus loosened his grip and Riley broke free, running towards Buffy. A shot rang out and Riley crumpled to the floor in pain. He looked up into the barrel of the gun, grabbing his knee, blood seeping between his fingers.
"Nice try, boy," Angelus said, touching the cut on his forehead gingerly. "You really are hard-headed, aren't you?" He cocked the gun again.
"Leave him alone," Buffy said from behind Angelus. "It's me you want."
Angelus turned to face her and smiled. "Truer words have never been spoken," he muttered softly.
He walked up to her and stopped inches from where she stood looking up at him. Then he followed her gaze as she shifted it to Riley lying wounded on the floor.
"It's just so touching how she came to your rescue, isn't it? I mean, she just tried so hard to save you..." Angelus' dark eyes flashed with merriment. "And could you try not to bleed so much? You're making me rather hungry..." He chuckled--a low, rolling rumble in his chest.
Riley tried to move, to lunge at him, but he caught Buffy's eyes and stopped. She was looking at him so intensely as she stood next to the vampire. And the hardness of her expression told him to stay still. She shook her head slightly—once—and looked at him as if to ask, Do you trust me?
He had no reason to trust her; he barely knew her. And yet, he felt as if he knew everything about her; at least the things that mattered. He held her gaze and nodded. He did trust her. Completely.
"He's not important, Angelus. He's nobody. He's not even worth the effort it would take you to kill him..." Her voice was clear and steady. And she turned her eyes back to the vampire.
Angelus gazed at her curiously. Then he laughed. "How does it feel to know you're expendable?" he asked, looking at Riley briefly. "She doesn't even care whether you live or die." He turned his eyes back to Buffy. "But you care whether I do, don't you, lover?" he cooed, brushing her face with the barrel of the gun, drawing it slowly from her temple to her chin. "Because all you can see is your precious Angel. My eyes are his eyes, my voice is his voice, my lips," he said slowly, leaning in and brushing her lips with his, "are his lips..." he finished, pulling back.
Buffy swallowed and closed her eyes, pushing the tears out and letting them fall unhindered down her face.
"Tears for your fallen Angel. How touching..." he whispered, touching her face. "But he's gone, lover. Forever..."
Buffy took a deep breath and opened her eyes again, looking into the deep brown ones of her nemesis. And for the first time, she didn't see Angel in them.
"You're right. He is," she whispered. She looked quickly at Riley, whose eyes were still on her, and then grabbed Angelus by the front of his shirt and pulled him to her, pressing her lips to his roughly. Then she grabbed the stake from her back pocket and shoved it into his chest, letting her hands fall to her sides as he turned to dust, the gun clanging heavily against the stone floor.
And for a long moment, the only sound that could be heard was the crackling fire.

***

The town of Sunnydale was experiencing a reawakening. No one had been
arrested, but the the killings had stopped. And somehow the people knew that
the insanity was over. Smiles were wider, laughter was louder, and breath
was no longer hard to come by.
Things returned to normal. Which for Sunnydale, was anything but.
But the people would take it.

***

Christa Matthews. Sharon McCormick. Amanda Baxter. Katie Phillips. Michelle Richardson. Names etched in stone for all to see. To never forget.
The memorial had been erected in their honor—the fallen innocents. And two people stood in front of it now, silently reading the names and remembering.
Riley shifted his weight uncomfortably on his crutches and looked down at the small girl next to him. She reached her hand up and touched the marble, brushing her fingers lightly over each name. And she closed her eyes.
He gently brushed her hair off her shoulder and let his hand rest against her back beneath it. He turned his gaze back to the monument, watching her fingers trace each letter reverently.
She dropped her hand to her side and let out her breath, looking up at him and studying his profile. The she softly asked him, "Do you believe in God, Riley?"
Her words caught him by surprise and he turned his head to look at her, his eyes holding hers. He had asked himself that same question so many times and had never found the answer. And here it was, put to him again.
He paused before answering, wanting to be sure. He looked once again at the five names etched in marble—five young women who had died needlessly, whose lives had been taken in defiance of the God that was supposed to protect them. But then he looked back at Buffy, at her beautiful face and her sad, expressive eyes. And he felt that there must be some higher power at work somewhere. She had gone to the edge and had fought her way back. And she was standing there with him. Her smile and her compassion represented all that was good in the world.
Taking a breath, he touched her cheek and said softly, "Yes, I do." And he smiled at her. He reached down and took her cross in his hand, rubbing it between his fingers. "Do you?"
Her eyes clouded up momentarily and she looked down at her feet, sighing heavily. "I want to," she replied softly. "But I can't."
Riley brushed the back of his hand across her cheek. "You have to believe in something," he told her.
She looked up at him and smiled. "I do," she whispered, taking his hand.
Riley smiled and squeezed her hand.