The second her hand touched the weapon, Buffy gasped and staggered back. Her hand…her arm burned, and the raw power of the Scythe surged through her. Struggling to keep her footing and her hold on the snaith, Buffy barely noticed the first wave of vampires rush toward her and Angel.

On autopilot, she put her right hand on the haft and swung in a chest-high, level arc. The scythe whistled and picked up speed. It weighed next to nothing, and Buffy watched in amazement as it cut through four vampires in succession.

Dust scattered in a thick cloud.

Where it landed on the scythe, the blade glowed. Unlike when she was digging for it, the light was blood red and pulsed sullenly. She didn't have time to watch, though. With a sharp wrench, she brought the axe in a return arc.

One of the new line of vampires had a sword. It clanged against the scythe, stopping Buffy's swing. She snarled in response and shoved the scythe forward. The spike at the top of the haft pierced the vampire's eye. Screaming, he dropped his blade and staggered away.

Buffy chanced a quick look around as she ducked a wild swing from another vampire. The cemetery was teeming with more, and she couldn't see Angel in the swarm. Heart pounding, Buffy bit back a cry of fear. There was no way she could win this fight alone.

She reached for Willow. For an instant, warmth tickled the edges of their link…and then faded as Buffy blocked a sword thrust with the hilt of the axe. It took too much concentration to maintain her connection with Willow.

If Angel was down, she was truly alone.

Gripping the scythe, Buffy ignored the shaking in her arms and the sudden drop in her strength. She didn't have time for fear.

She let the Slayer out to play and raised her weapon with a scream of defiance. She'd died before. If she had to, she could do it again. On the way, though, she'd make damned sure most of her opponents went with her.

The darkness in the cemetery brightened as the Slayer stretched out. Yessss, the Slayer howled. YES! The scythe blazed brightly at the inner sound, and the Slayer seized on the added power radiating from the weapon.

This was a weapon like no other. Hands curling around the polished wood of the hilt, the Slayer swung the blade back and forth. She didn't pause or slow when the contact wasn't fatal. Instead, she waded into the mass of demons.

A few vampires managed to land lucky blows.

Barely aware of the cuts, bruises, and broken bones, the Slayer fought. This was what she had been bred for. This is what she lived to do. Their host hadn't understood before. Now…Now the Slayer demonstrated what they should have been all along.

There was no sense of time. There was only swing, duck, parry, kick, and kill.

Finally, the Slayer realized her prey were fewer in number. Disappointed, she pursued those that ran for safety. They could not get away.


From inside the school, the screaming of her senses managed to somehow grow louder. It was nearly a physical presence, and Faith clenched her teeth and pulled her shields in tight. It helped with the debilitating cramping and the adrenaline swirling along her nerves.

It was like moving with cotton wrapped around her brain.

Gritting her teeth, Faith ignored the sudden vacuum. "Let's get this done," she said tightly. "When we hit the stairs, we're gonna have a bulls eye right on our heads. Don't slow down – for anything," she stressed, looking slowly around the dark classroom, meeting every pair of eyes in turn. In case one of the new Scoobies missed the significance of that statement, Faith repeated it. "Not for anything."

No one moved.

"T," Faith directed, "you and the other Power Puff Girls stay in the middle. You're the only hope we got of keeping the Hellmouth from puking demons all over us."

Nodding resolutely, Tara took Drew's hand and pulled her over to where Jennifer stood. The older witch, Faith noted, was the only one of the three who seemed to take the coming battle in stride.

Drew was so pale her freckles glowed, and Tara's lips had disappeared into a tight line of tension.

A sour taste filled Faith's mouth as she considered the fact that either or both of them might not even reach the stairs. Shoving that thought away as if it burned, Faith quickly wove her way through the warren of desks still sitting in the abandoned room. "Hurry the fuck up, Old Timer. I'm gonna have as many grey as you soon."

Kirstan didn't respond to the verbal jab. Face expressionless, she simply gripped her sword in her right hand and slowly opened the classroom door.

Watching tensely, Faith wished she dared extend her senses.

She let out a quiet breath when Kirstan waved her left hand to indicate it was safe to enter the hallway. Sticking close together, the group inched down the hall. Lockers listed drunkenly against the walls and debris littered the floor. The sword hilt slipped in the sweat slicking Faith's palm, and she shifted it to her left hand long enough to rub her right dry on her pants.

It was too quiet. Too empty. There had to be something waiting for them. If not in one of the lockers then lurking in one of the other rooms or hiding around a corner.

They reached the stairs to the basement without incident, though. Staring at the thin wooden door, Faith knew their luck had run out. The First - and anything he'd managed to bring through the Hellmouth – waited for them. She reached out and gingerly turned the knob.

The hairs on the back of her neck sprang to attention at the loud metallic grating that echoed through the hallway.

Faith gave up on salvaging any element of surprise. With a violent tug, she wrenched the door open and leaped inside.

Two Bringers blocked her path, and four daggers drove at her body.

She parried one pair. Kirstan, standing at her shoulder, caught the others. The small landing was a very bad place for fighting. Pressed against Kirstan and hemmed in by the bodies stacked behind her, Faith struggled to keep her thrusts focused on the enemy.

A sharp edge sliced through her shirt – and arm.

Hissing at the pain, Faith got angry. "Fuck this!" she shouted. Raising a booted foot, she slammed it into the Bringer in front of her and watched in satisfaction as he tumbled down the stairs.

His companion half-turned at the sounds of the dull thuds and grunts of pain as the first Bringer completed his trip. That distraction cost him. Two blades thrust into him, one right after the other.

Faith swallowed back nausea at the blood streaking her sword. Human or not, the Bringers were evil. That reminder helped – a little. "Stay close," she mumbled shakily and then started quickly down the stairs.

More Bringers waited at the bottom.

Slowing down wouldn't help. Faith reached out a mental hand and unlocked the Slayer's cage. The primal spirit burst out with a howl that tore from Faith's throat, too. Lips pulled back in a feral grin, she vaulted over the railing and landed right in the middle of the group of Bringers. "Hope you ate your Wheaties, boys. The Slayer's in the house now."


Willow stared at the white sneakers. No. This wasn't happening. She was dreaming, or having another vision.

Latching onto that thought, Willow drew her eyes away from the body on the floor and the silent group standing vigil over it. As she scanned the living room, Willow relaxed and smiled slightly. Yes, this was a dream. There were none of the normal signs of a fight. The bookshelves still stood upright with their books neatly aligned. No scorch marks marred the walls and there were no piles of vamp dust on the carpet.

Her smile began to fade, though.

The first look was a lie. Blinking dazedly, Willow examined the room more closely. The bookshelves were upright, yes. On one side of the room. On the other… Books covered the floor in untidy piles with the broken remains of several bookshelves and tables mixed in.

Bad; not the worst that Willow had seen, though…until she got to the first body.

The Bringer sprawled across the floor with the hilts of his daggers peeking out from beneath the pool of his bloodstained robes. The cause of the blood appeared to be the axe embedded in his back.

Clasping her hand over her mouth, Willow continued her perusal.

The scorch marks weren't missing. They simply weren't on the walls. They were on the next Bringer. The Bringer Willow had killed. The Bringer she'd set on fire when she lost control of her magic.

She felt her gorge rise. Swallowing convulsively, Willow numbly backed away. No. Nononononono. The word echoed in her head. No! She hadn't done that. She hadn't meant to do that.

"Willow?" A hand touched her shoulder, and Willow turned horror-filled eyes on Kennedy. "Maybe you should sit down. You look a little pale."

Legs stiff and shaky, Willow pulled away and staggered across the room.

Those tennis shoes didn't belong to a Bringer. With each step, Willow attempted to take an inventory of the people in the room. Step…Giles…step…Xander…

She couldn't remember the names of the Potentials and the new Watchers. Head pounding, Willow struggled to put names and faces together with limited success. Why couldn't she remember? She should remember. These were Scoobies now, too.

Reaching the group surrounding the body, Willow touched Giles' arm and peered around him. "Anya!" The room wavered and Willow swayed.

Blood leaked sluggishly from a deep cut on Anya's stomach; however, it hadn't always been such a slow flow. The floor was stained with a dark red puddle.

"Why is everyone staring at me?" Anya's voice lacked its customary sharpness. The irritation, though, was very evident. "I need bandages and stitches, Xander, not an audience."

"Right. Bandages. I'll be right back, An. Don't…don't go anywhere." Xander's voice broke on the words, and he sprinted through the gathered crowd.

Sinking to her knees next to Anya, Willow reached out a hand and gently stroked her hair. She reached out mentally, too, screaming one name, Buffy!