In Senegal, where Fleur de Mal was born at the end of the 18th century, she had watched the French colonists. The elders of her tribe had scolded her, saying the Europeans were no business of hers. Regardless, she watched. She learned of their power--the power to walk into another person's country and declare it theirs. Some tribesmen protested, but the colonists prevailed.

Power lured her. She had been contemplating marriage with the son of the chief elder. Her beauty was her own power, and she knew that any man she cast her eye upon would come to her hand. But now her eye went farther afield. The head of the trading company was flabby and often dirty, but other men bowed to him. When Fleur strolled across the company's clearing and allowed the foreign men to gaze on her, she caught the eye of their chief and smiled. Six months later, she was at his side on the ship headed to France, her tribe's condemnations in her ears and European silk on her shoulders.

The trader installed her at his country home while he returned to his wife and business in Paris. Fleur had strolled the alien gardens, marveling at the unimaginable landscapes. One summer evening she found a man in the remote part of the gardens, a small, skulking man whose eyes held secrets and promises. She died on his fangs that night, and she awoke to immortality. Her Sire, Jean la Chien, had taken her back to his Master, where she gazed on ageless power. She knew her Sire's place in the Master's court was little more than a joke, but she served him with gratitude. When her Sire was destroyed, she swore herself to the Master's service and began preparing herself for her destiny.

Aurelius was nearly hers, Fleur mused as she ran her fingers through the luxurious waters of her bath. The elegant, empty mansion on the outskirts of the Hellmouth had lovely appointments, once things had been cleaned. Humans were nothing but prey, but they were clever, and only the most conservative shunned the comforts of the human world. Fleur lounged in the large, tiled tub of the master suite, surrounded by candles, her slave crouched at the side of the tub as he tended to her very long hair.

The house smelled of vampires, though the scents were old. Fleur breathed in the traces. It was said Angelus had lived here, before his move to the city that bore his name. Anguish perfumed the empty rooms, torment and blood. Someone had suffered here. Several someones. Madness and rage and lust and betrayal.

"So lovely," she whispered Her slave paused in drawing his fingers carefully through her wet hair. "Nothing, mon agneau. Braid it, please. I'm going out later." The slave nodded and reached for his combs. He froze, whimpering.

Fleur frowned at him, then saw the problem. Creeping through the door was a severed hand, fairly fresh and leaving a trail of liquid behind it as it pulled itself along by its fingernails. She patted her slave's arm.

"Louis!" she called.

"Oui, madame?" came from a few rooms away.

"Are you missing something?"

"How did you--oh!" A thin, dark man ran in and snatched up the flexing hand. "So terribly sorry, madame. The dead are just so sprightly here on the Hellmouth, even the bits that aren't attached to anything have the urge to wander."

"Not everyone has your appreciation for spare parts, Louis. Please make sure everything is confined."

Louis bowed. "Of course, madame. It won't happen again. This must have crept out when my back was turned." He studied the hand, which was still curling its fingers. "Now, where were you trying to go, hm?" Murmuring to himself, he left the room.

Another man came in, looking back over his shoulder at Louis and grimacing. "Another escapee?" he asked Fleur.

"Wandering bits. It startled my poor lamb, that's all. You don't like Louis, do you, Paul? Is it because he's a necromancer or because he's human?"

"He's a Gypsy, isn't that reason enough?" He shuddered, then smiled. "Besides, necromancer, vampires--a potentially tricky relationship."

"He finds enough bits to play with to keep him happy. Besides, I find his magic useful." She held her hand out languidly. "What news on the Rialto, my Paul?"

Paul went to the tub and took her hand to give it a courtly kiss. He had learned his manners as a living man in the Imperial court of Napoleon, where his wit and blond good looks had charmed both Empresses. He learned his cunning during the seesawing months when the French kings reclaimed their throne, lost it with Napoleon's return, then regained it on Napoleon's fall 100 days later at Waterloo. He barely remembered the vampire who had waylaid him in an alley behind a Parisian brothel in 1824. He had served Fleur de Mal in whatever capacity she desired for one hundred years.

Stepping blithely around Fleur's slave, Paul sat in the chair at the foot of the tub. "There is news. His Eminence has taken to traveling."

Fleur turned her head as far as the braiding process would allow her. "Except for the meeting in France, he hasn't left Italy in a dozen decades. Where did he go?"

"Los Angeles."

"No."

"Yes. He paid a call on everyone's favorite outcast, Angelus."

Fleur stared at the ceiling. "But--are you sure?"

"I called the Archduke. Fortezzi paid a courtesy call on Sebassis, then stopped by that hotel Angelus calls home, then reboarded his private jet back to Rome."

"But he's on my side!" Fleur protested.

Paul tsked. "The old snake is on his own side. He currently favors you--apparently. He may just be stirring the pot."

Fleur had her thoughts under better control. "What is Angelus doing?" She frowned at Paul's fidget. "Well?"

"It appears he's coming here. He's sent out various messages that he and his people are leaving Los Angeles for a few days."

"I see. Calling Fortezzi would be fruitless, of course. He'd either deny the entire thing or pretend it was merely curiosity. Why would he stir up Angelus?" She looked at Paul at the same moment Paul straightened in realization. "Because Angelus is the great unresolved issue of the Order of Aurelius."

Paul nodded quickly. "Enough people have known over the years that he was cursed, I'm surprised he wasn't ordered destroyed. Or were they hoping he could be released?"

Fleur shook her head. "I never heard it discussed. There's too much legend involved for clear debate. But he does need settled."

"It would be very impressive."

"What would?"

Paul took a deep breath. "If you destroyed Angelus."

Fleur let her head rest on the rim of the tub. Her slave kept the braid he was constructing from getting in the way. "Destroy Angelus." She smiled slowly. "Yes, the Order would definitely take notice of that. I don't suppose anyone knows where Drusilla is, do they?"

"South America, the last I heard," Paul shrugged. "Why?"

"Angelus would be impressive enough. But his entire line? We have William the Bloody here, and Angelus is coming . . ."

Paul rose and went over to pick up Fleur's hand and give it another kiss. "And this is why you're favored to lead the Order."
She smiled at him. "They're not dead yet, my dear. But it is a good plan, isn't it."

He leaned over to kiss her lips. "Indeed, mon coeur."


The second vampire victim's body of the night was tossed up in a tree in the park. From what Buffy could tell, there were multiple bites from multiple vamps. Just like the first one, which had been left curled up on a park bench in full view of the street. Newbies didn't hunt in packs, typically. Spike's crew didn't go in very often for ostentatious killing where the Slayer could find out, but Buffy hadn't heard of a new gang in town.

She walked on cautiously through the park. This latest body was less than an hour old. Part of her wished for Scooby back-up, but that was immediately countered with relief that she didn't have to worry about anybody getting hurt. Willow's magic was very useful, but she'd seemed very distracted the past few days. Maybe it was her usual "less than a month till classes start, and I haven't finished reading all the books yet!" thing.

Buffy kicked a nearby rock. Mom had mentioned a trip to the beach for a long weekend again, and Buffy hated saying she needed to keep an eye on the Hellmouth. She wanted to watch her mother smile in the sun and her sister play in the ocean. She knew normal was a lie in her world, but couldn't she pretend for just a few days?

And, right on schedule, here came another drama, crashing through the bushes and breathing hard. She pulled out her stake and got ready.

Floppy-skinned Clem, clutching a basket to his chest, fell out of the bushes into the open and looked around desperately. "Oh! Miss Slayer! Help!" Before Buffy could react, Clem was hiding behind her. "They're trying to kill me!"

More crashing in the underbrush, and Clem's pursuers appeared: three men with crossbows.

Three familiar men with crossbows.

"Now, who said you could go charging around my town like this?" Buffy protested.

"Please step away from the demon, miss," the bowman on the left said.

"Oh, you mean this demon? The one hiding behind me? Who asked me to protect him from you?" Clem hunched down further, peering over Buffy's shoulder.

"Miss . . ."

"Where's your boss? Or is he letting you run around loose tonight?"

Quentin Travers hurried down the path, breathing just a little heavily. "No, Miss Summers, they're not running around loose. They just got ahead of me." He stopped and leaned on his walking stick. "Still, they have a valid point." He glared at Clem. "Why are you protecting that demon?"

"Because he asked me to?"

Travers frowned. "That's very clever, to hide behind one hunter to escape another group of hunters. Still, he ran when he saw us."

Clem blinked in surprise. "I always run from scary guys with crossbows!"

Buffy shrugged. "Not a bad plan, actually." She noticed squeaking noises coming from Clem's basket. "Clem, what's in the basket?"

"Oh, um . . ."

She gave him a stern look. "I'm backing you up here, Clem. Tell me there's not something icky in the basket."

"There's not something icky. Unless you don't like fur."

"Clem!"

He sighed and eased the top off the wicker basket. Several furry little noses poked at the opening, mewing urgently.

"Kittens!" Buffy squealed. She lost her grin fast to a look of horror. "Why do you have kittens? Oh my god, what are you going to do with the cute little kittens?"

"I'm going to play poker with them," Clem said, sounding baffled. He gave her a disturbed look. "What do you do with kittens?"

She gently stroked a little tabby head. "Hug them." She firmly pulled her hand back. "You play poker with kittens? How do they hold the cards?"

Clem blinked. "I--no. I make bets with the kittens."

"You use kittens for money?"

"Well, yeah."

Buffy stared at Clem for a few more moments, then turned decisively back to Travers. "You see, Mr. Travers? Just a guy going to his poker game. You don't have some sort of 'Shoot him because he doesn't look like everyone else' orders, do you?"

Travers stopped staring at Clem. "This is an alien creature--"

"Hey, I was born in this country, mister!"

Travers paused to get his thoughts back in order. "He's a--" he cleared his throat "--demon."

Buffy shook her head. "What was that?"

"It's not pronounced like that," Clem said. "More in the back of the throat." He made a coughing-hacking noise.

Travers blinked. "Are you sure?"

"Dude, I am one, I know how it's pronounced."

"But Rutger's Universal Compendium is quite clear that the glottal stop is on the first syllable."

"All I know is the only person I know who pronounces it like you is Mom, but she's from Texas."

"Texas?" Buffy asked.

"Dad met her on vacation, brought her home to meet the folks. Been here ever since."

Travers thumped his walking stick on the ground. "In any case! These are dangerous creatures, Miss Summers."

"So am I! So are baby deer and goats!"

"Excuse me?"

"Have you been to a petting zoo?"

"Miss Summers--"

"Mr. Travers!" She caught her breath. "While your goons have been chasing poor Clem around the park, there's been a gang of vampires turning the populace into a buffet. There's a fresh body not a hundred yards down that path. Don't you think that's a bit more important than Clem going to his poker game?"

Travers hesitated, then looked at his men, who were conferring among themselves and shaking their heads. "I wasn't aware of that," he said slowly. "Yes, that is more important. A gang, you say?"

"Multiple sizes of bite marks."

Clem made a nauseated noise. "I'm thinking you guys have Slayer business to talk about, so how about I just head on over to the game?" He started to sidle away, but the crossbows came up.

Buffy glared at Travers, who sighed and nodded to his men. They reluctantly lowered their weapons.

"OK, then!" Clem said brightly. "I'll just be going, then. Nice to see you again, Miss Buffy."

"You, too. And it's just Buffy. Be careful, Clem."

He grinned and headed down the path, a happy bounce in his step.

Travers watched him go, frowning. Buffy watched him for a few moments, amused by the look of baffled British reserve. "Never chatted with a demon before?"

"Never so . . . genially."

"Don't you think that's how it should be?"

"How do you mean?"

Buffy began walking, Travers falling in at her side and the sullen crossbowmen following. "He asked me for help. A demon asked the Slayer to protect him. And Clem isn't really a demon, he's just not human. His Mom's from Texas! Instead of shoving everyone into human and demon-ish, shouldn't I be protecting the good people, whatever they are, from the bad people--whatever they are?"

Travers frowned. "Creatures like--Clem are dangerous."

"My mom can be dangerous if you push her hard enough. Most of my friends are dangerous. That doesn't mean they're bad."

"No, it doesn't. Miss Summers, the simple fact is--you are unique. The vast majority of Slayers don't survive long enough to have the time and experience to consider the philosophic underpinnings of what we do. They're busy surviving and learning to fight, and there's generally a catastrophe of one sort or another that doesn't allow them the time to consider things."

Buffy thought on that for a few moments. "I can see your point," she said quietly. "So what's your excuse?"

"Pardon?"

"You're the head of the Watcher's Council. You've got access to all the books about the weird creatures in the world. You've had time to consider things." She looked back at the crossbowmen still following them. "I just don't think you care."

"Miss Summers, there are reasons we do things--"

"What reasons! How do you justify killing creatures who aren't hurting anybody? How many harmless creatures have you and your Merry Men gone after since you've been here?" She stopped at the foot of a tree and looked up. Travers followed her gaze and winced. A human corpse, clothing half-ripped off, multiple bite wounds darkening the flesh.

Buffy stepped in close to Travers. "That's what I'm supposed to be fighting against, Mr. Travers. The things that butcher people. I've gone after killer robots and crazed wizards and kids who stitch their brothers back together and bring them back to life and government agencies gone nuts. I don't go where you point or kill whatever you think I should. That's not how we do things here on the Hellmouth."

After several moments, Travers glanced back up at the body. "You suspect something new in regards to this? There aren't--gangs already in place that are hunting together?"

"It's not Spike and Giles' bunch, no. They lay very low." She glared out into the night. "Something else has moved in, and it's making itself at home."

"Yes, we should look into this--"

"No."

Travers turned to Buffy in surprise. She gave him a very steady look in return.

"I think you should go home. I know why you came but I don't know why you stay, and this isn't the place for you and the way you do things. Either do the job you came here to do or not, but decide and go home."

"Miss Summers, it is not for you to decide where members of the Council go or what they do--"

She took a supernaturally fast step up close to him. "Then listen to the Slayer when she tells you that you are a threat to her town and she doesn't put up that! This is not a training exercise! You are stirring up all the wrong things, and I don't have time for that! That is the second body I've found tonight, and I'm pretty damned sure that while I've been messing with you, a third body is somewhere out there!"

The crossbowmen came up closer, looking antsy and willing to fight. Buffy glared at them but smiled very slightly.

"Gentlemen, please," Travers said quickly. "Miss Summers, please, there's no need for us to fight." He muttered under his breath for a few moments, then shook his head. "You're right, Miss Summers. This is not the job I and my men are suited for. We should finish matters, one way or another. But it might take a few more days. I'm still communicating with England on some issues."

Buffy nodded tightly. "Just so it's soon." Her shoulders sagged just a little. "Maybe I can send Mom and Dawn to the beach by themselves."

"Pardon?" Travers asked cautiously.

She waved a hand in the air. "Sorry, never mind. My mom wants to take us to the beach for a few days. Pretend we're a normal family and spend some normal time together. She hasn't been up to it before now, and Dawn and I had summer classes, and there's not much time before classes start again--" She shook her head. "And that's not really here nor there. Too much stuff going on here."

Travers watched her for several moments. "Miss Summers, there is very little that I can do for you that is useful or relevant. But perhaps I can give you some time."

"Excuse me?" Buffy blinked.

"If you would entrust the safety of your town to me and my men for a few days, then you could go with your family on a brief holiday."

"Oh, but, I can't--" She hesitated, then hit him with a full-strength smile of delight. She very nearly hugged him, but caught herself in time. "Mr. Travers, that would be--it wouldn't be for long, two or three days, a long weekend is all."

"That would be fine. Just tell me when you're leaving, and my men and I will patrol the town--for evil-doers of whatever stripe, leaving the innocent alone," he added at her sudden scowl.

"That should do fine, then." Her smile got away from her again. "Thank you, Mr. Travers."

He bowed slightly. "You're very welcome, Miss Summers." He glanced up at the corpse and sighed. "I suppose we'd best go look for the next poor victim. Perhaps we'll get lucky and find the vampires that did it."

Buffy nodded firmly. "That would be nice."

"And perhaps you can instruct me on how things are done on the Hellmouth."

"We survive, Mr. Travers. We survive."


"Come on, you lazy sons of bitches, what's it take to get eaten in this town these days?" The young man sitting on the tombstone tilted his head back to drain another inch from his whiskey bottle. "My god, you guys are pathetic! Used to be you couldn't walk more than a block at night without some blood sucker going for you. Vamps these days, geez."

In the shadows, the week-old fledgling licked his fangs and started forward. A hand grabbed his collar and twisted. "Hold it right there, Billy Bob."

Billy Bob growled at his hunting partner. "Lemme go, Nathan! He's just sittin' there, drunk and stupid and beggin' for it!"

"Yes, he is, but that's just too bad. You know the rules."

"Yeah! Kill the humans, drink their blood! Make 'em scream!"

Nathan shook his head. "Fledges. Billy Bob, do you remember what the boss said? Something about some folks being off limits?"

Billy Bob screwed his face up hard as he thought. "Uh ... no."

"If you last a month I'm buying you a screaming teenager all for your very own. OK, there are some people in this town that we're not to go near. We showed you the Slayer, you remember what she smelled like?"

"Yeah. Euw."

"Good boy. The wind's coming in our direction, take a whiff of entree over there."

Billy Bob took a deep breath, drooling a little at the scent of all that healthy blood. Then his nose wrinkled in disgust. "He smells like the Slayer!"

"Uh huh. And what did the boss say about people who smell like the Slayer?"

"Uh ... leave 'em be."

"Good boy! You may make it after all."

"But, Nathan, the boss and the Wizard smell like the Slayer, too, sometimes."

"And we leave them be. Not too hard, now, is it?"

Billy Bob thought for several seconds. This apparently had gotten no easier after death. "But--what about him?" He nodded towards the man with the bottle. "Somebody's gonna eat him, why not us?"

"Because the whelp's not on the menu," said a new voice.

Nathan turned, sighing in relief. "Hey, boss. Sammy got hold of you?"

Spike stood under the tree and lit a cigarette as he stared at the human. "He got me. How long has this been going on?"

"The guy plopped himself down there about an hour ago. Me and Billy Bob are the only ones who've seen him, but--"

"Come on, assholes!" yelled the human. "Nummy treat here! Where the fuck are you!"

Nathan shrugged. "What do we do?"

"I'll take care of him. You two eaten yet?"

"Yeah, but Billy Bob's still peckish."

"There's a frat party up on campus just letting out, but keep an eye out for the Slayer."

"OK. See you later, boss. Come on, Billy Bob."

Spike waited till the two minions were out of range, then strolled out into the clearing. "Evenin', Harris. Lovely deathwish you've got tonight."

Xander glared at him around the bottle he held to his lips. "Can't have a death wish if the fucking killers won't show up."

"Lovely language, too. Picking up the family trade, are we?"

"Leave me the fuck alone." He looked out into the darkness. "Here, vampires! Free food!"

Spike settled on a nearby tombstone. "Sorry, pet, but you're off the menu. Nobody's going to be dining on you tonight. Or any other night."

"Why not?"

The vampire smiled at the young man. "Because nobody gets to kill you but me."

Xander finished his whiskey as he studied Spike, then he smashed the bottle against the tombstone. He pushed up his shirt sleeve and sliced open his arm with the broken glass. "Let's do it, then." He held out his arm, dripping blood, to Spike.

Spike jumped to his feet. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

"You said you were going to kill me. No time like the present." Xander stared at the cut on his arm and the blood running down.

From somewhere Spike found a scarf to wrap around Xander's arm. "Fuck, that's going to take stitches." At this range, the smell was dizzying, hot and rich and familiar, even if laced with whiskey. He stared at his bloody fingers, then slowly raised them to lick them clean.

"More where that came from," Xander said softly, watching the vampire features come out as Spike licked his lips. He held his arm closer to the sensitive nose.

Golden, half-closed eyes studied him, then Spike took hold of Xander's wrist and proceeded to lick away the blood trails from the arm and hand. Xander closed his eyes, ignoring everything as he waited for the touch of fangs. But it eventually dawned on him that the teeth nibbling on his index finger were blunt. He reluctantly opened his eyes and found Spike in human face as he played with Xander's fingers.

Xander yanked his hand away. "Dammit, Spike, you promised!" He clawed at the knot holding the scarf over his wound. "Dammit, what's it take to get eaten these days?"

"Less than you think, pet" Spike murmured. "Come on, now, stop that." He captured Xander's hands. "And I didn't promise anything."

"Yes, you did, every day it was 'As soon as I get this chip out, I've got a list, and you're all on it. Gonna kill you all, and if I like you I'll make it quick.' Well, the chip's out, the world doesn't need saving, so let's get with the program."

"Oh, I've still got that list, boy. 'I've got a little list,'" he sang to himself. "but I'm not going to start on it just yet."

"Fibber. Liar. William the Bloody, all big talk, no follow-through. Yeah, I figured as much. Hey, vamps!" he yelled. "Spike's a big, fat--"

Spike put one hand over Xander's mouth and the other on the back of his head. "I may not kill you, but I can still make you hurt, boy." He shifted his fingers to close Xander's nose. Xander struggled a moment, then he stopped trying to fight for air and relaxed into Spike's hold.

Spike pulled his hand away. "Jesus, Xander, what the hell are you up to?"

Xander breathed jerkily, as if fighting his body's autonomic reflexes. "What's it look like, fangboy?"

"Like you're trying to commit suicide by vampire." Spike lit another cigarette, hiding his unease behind smoke.

Xander looked away, staring off sullenly. Spike sat down on the headstone of the beloved wife of the man whose tombstone Xander was sitting on and pulled out his flask.

"Gimme," Xander said, reaching.

"You've had enough, whelp."

Xander snorted. "I'm a Harris, I can cope. Gimme."

"I said no. Fuck, Harris, look at you. What the hell are you up to? Drinking yourself stupid, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, by the smell of it. Next thing you know you're going to be shopping for a refrigerator box down by the docks."

"Yeah, and why the hell not? What does it matter anyway? Give me one reason why I shouldn't?" He sagged into himself, staring down.

Spike had to admit that his "comfort the depressed" skills were a bit lacking. According to the telly, you were supposed to remind the suicidal of all the things he had to live for: friends, family, loved ones, hope for the future. A quick rundown of the standard list vis a vis Xander Harris, however, showed a series of blanks that were, quite appropriately, depressing. And it wasn't hard to track back to its source. He hadn't been watching the boy all summer for nothing.

He took a long drag on his cigarette. "You meant to die that day, didn't you."

Xander continued to stare at his hands, hanging limply between his knees. "Would have solved everything nicely. You tie up the loose ends, you make sure the people you care about are taken care of, you do the big deed, and you die. And you don't have to worry about going to work the next day and coming up with a good reason for missing a week of work."

"Yeah, well, tough luck, you lived. Deal with it."

"I could have gone out a hero instead of--whatever it is I am now. There's no black and white anymore, Spike. I stood next to you, a soulless, chipless, happily evil vampire, and I killed humans. To save the life of the woman I love, I made a deal to turn her back into a vengeance demon. And now my best friends give me funny, scared looks--when they bother to look at me at all. Why the fuck bother anymore? Stop the Harris loser train before it drags its sorry ass along any farther."

"You're not a loser," Spike muttered.

"Uplifting words from a serial killer. Very comforting." He got to his feet and wobbled. "Thanks anyway."

"Where are you going?"

Xander waved in a vague direction. "If the vampires won't see me off, I bet I can find something in the town to do it. G'bye, Spike."

Spiked jumped to his feet and grabbed Xander's arm. "C'mon, pet, let's just get you home. Sleep some of this off and you'll feel better in the morning."

Xander yanked free and slapped Spike's hand away. "I don't want to feel better in the morning. I want to be dead in the morning."

"Not going to happen."

"I bet I can find something around Willy's bar to make it happen."

God, the boy had actually thought this out. Without a bodyguard, he'd find easy death before he went a block. Make him stop, make him think . . . "Gonna make someone else do the deed, boy? Don't have the balls to do it yourself?"

Xander hesitated, then he reached down and picked up a big piece of broken whisky bottle. Moonlight glittered off a jagged edge. His eyes were calm and not nearly as befuddled as all that booze should have made them. Then the shard was moving, up to the side of the throat where years of vampire experience told him the blood ran best.

"Shit!" Spike jumped forward and grabbed Xander's wrist. He clamped down until the shard fell from numb hands. Xander struggled, and Spike grabbed both arms, pulling him close..

"Let go," Xander growled.

"No way in hell--"

Xander shifted his weight and brought his knee up hard. Spike yelled, but before Xander could pull free, he was yanked against the chest of a snarling, demon-faced vampire.

"You wanna die that bad, boy?" Spike growled. "This what you want?"

Xander stared back into the yellow eyes, breathing hard. "Yeah."

Spike slowly wrapped his fingers in Xander's hair and pulled his head back. Xander never broke the stare. Spike freed his other hand and sliced a small cut in Xander' throat with a claw-like fingernail. Xander twitched but made no attempt to pull away. Spike leaned in close enough to feel the heat on his face.

"This what you want?" he whispered, staring into flat brown eyes. "Drain you dry and leave you to rot? End the sorry mess you call your life?"

"Do it," Xander breathed.

Spike stared a moment more, then drove his fangs into Xander's throat.

Xander gasped, then closed his eyes and relaxed.

Spike growled as he drank, reveling in the heat and despair. He felt Xander's body go limp and chuckled--then his higher functions kicked him in the head. He let go and swore, licking his lips so as not to lose anything. Xander hung in his arms, heart protesting and breathing shallow. Blood ran from the holes in his throat. Spike leaned down, drawn to the pulse.

"Fuck," he snarled, and laid Xander on the ground. He pulled the scarf from around Xander's arm and pressed it to his throat. "God damned, lack-brained idiot!" The scent tortured him; it took a shaking effort not to dive in and finish the job. Force enough of Spike's own blood down the boy's throat to make sure of him, then drag him home. It'd be days before anyone noticed he was missing. And why the hell wasn't he doing it, already?

He licked his lips again, tasting. Despair, a little regret. No fear. No anger. No hate. No life. He slapped Xander's unresponsive face.

"Do not go gently into that good night, dammit! This is not going to be because you don't have any better ideas! I don't do charity, and I sodding hate 'Don't Fear the Reaper!'"

He snarled a final curse and pulled Xander up into his arms. The De Soto was at the cemetery gates, and he could claim at the hospital that he'd been innocently driving along when he'd spotted this poor git on the side of the road. Though he'd better wipe his mouth before he got there.


It was well past midnight when Quentin Travers made it back to the hotel. He now had empirical evidence on the wisdom of using adolescents for the job of Slayer: even supernatural abilities wouldn't be enough without the endless energy of a youngster. Though Buffy Summers didn't seem to be suffering any lack as she entered her twenties. Her experience and intelligence more than made up for any--admittedly undetectable--falling off in physical abilities. Remarkable girl. And remarkable training. Travers spared yet another moment for grief at the Council's loss.

His men continued to the higher floor where they shared a small suite while Travers walked stiffly tohis room. They'd found two vampires in the park who proved to be much more clever than the usual sort. They fought as a team, giving Buffy a significant challenge. Travers' men were trained in hand to hand fighting, but they didn't have a Slayer's strength or resilience. They managed to distract one of the creatures long enough for Buffy to destroy it, then the remaining one apparently decided to cause as much damage as possible before the inevitable. Travers' stash of holy water in his pocket drove it back from himself, but it had still taken a cooperative effort from all of them to give Buffy her opening.

She'd ordered the Councilmen back to the hotel while she continued patrolling, citing their injuries and relative inexperience at what she called "hard core vampire fun and games." The skill of the two vampires obviously worried her, and she wanted to investigate further without having comparative civilians to slow her down. She seemed most concerned about the pair being from out of town, as evidenced by their speaking French.

"If the Hellmouth's becoming a vacation destination, then I'm going to have some serious words with some travel agencies," she'd declared as she proceeded off into the darkness.

He'd heard his men complaining about their aches and pains as the elevator door had closed behind him. Poor fellows, despite all their training, they weren't best pleased at being so obviously outclassed by a tiny girl. At least the head of the Council was expected to be so ... hands-on in his own duties. Still, he mused as he slid his key card through the lock on his door, a hot bath would be very pleasant.

He locked the door behind him, but just as he was reaching for the light he smelled whiskey.

"Hello, Quentin."

His right thumb pressed the hidden button on the head of his walking stick as his left hand dove into his jacket pocket. The end of his cane fell off, revealing a foot of hardened, tapered ash wood. He held up the silver crucifix from his pocket as he spun and fell back against the door.

The lamp on the desk clicked on, showing an open bottle of superb single malt and a smiling vampire in the chair.

"Rupert," he gasped, fighting his pounding heart.

Rupert Giles raised his glass. "Welcome back to the Hellmouth, Quentin."

Travers knew better than to ask how Rupert had gotten into the room: any first year student at the Watchers' academy knew that public accommodations were no protection from vampires. He also knew better than to ask how Rupert had gotten into the locked desk drawer where that bottle of whiskey had been: lockpicking was one of the lesser skills he had picked up during his sojourn in the seedy side of London.

It was appalling how innocuous Rupert Giles looked. His clothing was respectable, if uniformly dark, and his expression was mild as he poured a splash of whiskey into another glass. Then he glanced up, and the faint smile was sardonic and the chilly eyes sparkled with cruel amusement.

"Join me in a glass?" he asked courteously, waving at a nearby chair. "We have so much to catch up on."

Travers had recovered his wits. "I'll stay here, thank you."

Rupert shrugged and sipped from his glass. "Pity. This is excellent whiskey. From your estate in Scotland?"

"Yes."

He leaned back in his chair and studied Travers. "You look like you've been dragged through thorn bushes, Quentin. What have you been doing?"

"Patrolling with the Slayer. Rather a lot of activity tonight."

Rupert raised a mild eyebrow. "Not my doing, I assure you."

"No," Travers agreed, "Miss Summers assured me that you and your . . . associates keep a low profile."

"What sort of activity?" Rupert asked with a bit more interest.

"By the end of it, four bodies in the park with bites from multiple vampires. We encountered two vampires who showed more skill than usual, and it was a bit of a fight to finish them."

"Is Buffy all right?"

Travers studied him for a moment. "She's fine. A bit bruised, but she seemed to think that was nothing."

Rupert shook his head. "She always did." When he met Travers' eyes again, the chilly vampire look was diluted with painfully familiar humor. "I know why you're here."

"I imagine it's obvious."

"I'm not going to make it easy on you."

"That was rather obvious as well." Travers made no move to lower either the crucifix or his cane. "And no matter how hard you try to convince me that you're still Rupert Giles, I know my godson died months ago."

Rupert looked away again. "There are differing theories . . ."

"None I hold to."

Silence held for several moments. "What have you told my father?" Rupert asked quietly, studying the lamp.

"That you died and that there was no body to send home to England."

The vampire's mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "I'm sure he'll know what to make of that euphemism." He tossed back the rest of his whiskey and got decisively to his feet. Before he got more than a step from his chair, Travers pushed the crucifix towards him. Rupert turned his face away quickly. "Damn."

Travers looked thoughtful. "Why does that work?"

"Excuse me?" Rupert asked, still shielding his eyes.

"The cross. Why does it drive you away?"

Rupert stared, then laughed. "Ah, Watchers." He gave Travers a predatory grin. "I could write you a paper. Imagine a whole series on vampiric phenomenon studied first hand."

The mind of a Watcher actually paused to consider the idea, then sense caught up with him. "I doubt the Council would approve your research fees."

"No, I imagine not." Rupert gestured at the door. "If you'll step aside, I'll make your evening easier by leaving. I imagine you're anxious to get those scratches seen to." His smile twitched again at Travers' look of confusion. "I can smell you bleeding."

Travers adjusted his grip on his cane as he moved towards the wardrobe, where his anti-vampire supplies were. He knew he wouldn't have time to get to them if Rupert attacked, but at least he could make the effort.

Rupert waited till Travers was out of easy reach before going to the door. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. "I suppose telling you to go home is futile."

"Yes."

His face twisted into demonic angles. Travers flinched, and Rupert chuckled. "Our next meeting won't be so pleasant."

Travers waited till he could speak calmly. "I know. Thank you." The inhuman face gave him a puzzled look. "For removing any doubts."
Puzzlement faded to understanding, and the familiar face of Rupert Giles reappeared. A flicker of sadness appeared through the predatory amusement. "You're welcome." He opened the door and left quietly.

Travers waited for at least five minutes before dropping the cane and going to lock the door. A quick check outside the peephole showed no one in the hall. Shaking, he went to the telephone on the desk. It took three tries before he could pry his fingers from around the crucifix so he could work the phone.

The telephone in his mens' room was answered quickly. "Allenby, tell Perkins to bring his kit down to my room. I need a ward on my door. And tell him to be careful, Rupert Giles is in the building. Oh, and Allenby. Call London. See if they've changed their minds on back-up." Travers stared at the whiskey glasses on his desk. "As soon as the Slayer is out of town, we move."