Business as usual apparently included being smuggled into London in the belly of a barge manned by Tommy's uncle, who had introduced himself as Charlie, and several other members of Tommy's gang, who had not introduced themselves at all. They spoke a language Buffy didn't recognize but Giles informed her was Romani.

"Do you speak Romani?" asked Buffy.

"No," Giles admitted.

He was no help at all. Buffy sighed and settled back down against the rough wooden wall. Her palms itched, and her leg bounced. She was not good at being— caged, her mind supplied. She didn't like the implications of that word, but the only other word she could think of to describe her current situation was entombed, which was far worse.

The wheelhouse wasn't big enough to fit all four of them at once, so during the day, they took turns. One or two would hide in the wheelhouse, while the others burrowed beneath various rolls and folds of canvas or wedged themselves between the crates that cluttered the back of the boat (for Charlie smuggled more traditional contraband in addition to his passengers). Buffy had tried to hide in the wheelhouse on her own on one occasion, just to get a few minutes of privacy, but the feeling of being trapped— suffocating— buried— the walls of the pine box closing in on her— was so intense that she had nearly torn the door off its hinges in her effort to escape.

So Giles sat with her and talked, and Buffy did not suffocate.

The boat-ride to London took three days. They barely stopped, not even to eat or make camp. Charlie and his men slept in shifts under the stars or the burning sun with nothing more than a scrap of canvas propped up on a pole for shelter. There was a single chamber pot for communal use, unless the men pissed over the side of the boat, which was most of the time. Willow devised a spell (under much supervision) to levitate the chamber pot, dump its contents in the canal, and clean it thoroughly. Embarrassing as it was, Buffy's disgust at the thought of doing it herself silenced any complaints she might have voiced about the misuse of magic. All in all, it was a miserable three days, and Buffy was beginning to feel distinctly unclean by the end of it. She was almost glad when they churned to a halt and Charlie announced that they had arrived in Camden Town. Buffy hastily drew on her borrowed coat before stepping out of the wheelhouse, and she was glad to see that Xander and Willow had the same instinct. Giles, of course, was still wearing his customary tweed. It was oddly comforting.

Buffy had never seen London. This was not a favorable first meeting. They had docked at some sort of boat-yard, it seemed, surrounded by warehouses and stinking of coal and demons. The hairs on the back of Buffy's neck rose, and she checked and double-checked her stakes and holy water.

Tommy and Polly stood nearby, out of the way of the men at work in the yard. They, of course, had not been smuggled into London in a barge; they had ridden in what looked to be a very fine car, if Giles's look of appreciation was any indication of quality.

"I need a bath," she informed Tommy as Charlie offered his hand to help her to the dock. (She ignored him.)

Tommy glanced at her, then back to the men who were unloading the smuggled crates from Charlie's boat. "You want a bath, you can jump in the canal."

Buffy folded her arms and fixed Tommy with her best Slayer Stare. He didn't even have the decency to notice. "I need a bath, and I need to wash my hair." She tugged a lank lock. "Look at it. It doesn't bounce. It doesn't shine."

Tommy did not look at it.

Willow spoke up from behind Buffy. "I could probably come up with a spell—"

"No!" said three voices at once.

"You can take a bath after the meeting," Tommy said. "There won't be time before."

"When is the meeting?" asked Giles.

"Now," said Tommy. He pointed at Buffy. "You're coming with me. Don't do anything I don't tell you to do. Don't fall for it when Alfie tries to bait you. And do not, under any circumstances, despite any provocation they might offer, stake any vampires. Am I understood?"

Buffy didn't like being spoken to like a child, and Tommy didn't get to give her orders. "I don't like being spoken to like a child," she said. "You don't get to give me orders."

"Am I understood?" Tommy repeated.

Buffy glared at him sullenly.

"Am I fucking understood or not?" Tommy puffed himself up into a ball of anger, like a cat raising its hackles.

Buffy watched him, unimpressed. (Not much managed to impress her these days, but she shook the thought off like flicking water from her fingers.) "Whatever."

"Fucking Slayers," Tommy muttered to Polly, quietly enough that Buffy didn't think he meant to be overheard. "All so fucking stubborn."

"Ada's worse," said Polly. She was more familiar with a Slayer's improved senses; Buffy had to strain to hear her.

Tommy glanced at her. "Is she?"

Polly scoffed and said nothing.

"Right, then," Tommy said at his usual volume. "If we're going, we go now. The rest of you, stay with Pol. She's in charge until I get back." He turned on his heel and strode toward the edge of the boat-yard without looking to see if Buffy followed.

Buffy smiled at her friends. "Seeya," she said, and she hurried after Tommy before anyone could tell her goodbye.

—-

The location of the meeting looked more like a distillery than a vampire nest. Smelled like one, too, but beneath the reek of rum was the familiar scent of blood and dust. Vampires. Buffy's nerves felt energized, electrified; she was coiled and ready to spring. She breathed shallowly, and her eyes darted to and fro. She noted every shadow, every brick, every scrap of lumber that littered the yard that led to the nest. Tommy's shoulders tightened as they approached, but Buffy wasn't sure if the atmosphere affected him as much as it did her or if he was merely anxious about the meeting.

Tommy knocked on the door, and a young, curly-haired man wearing an apron and a yarmulke answered. The sunlight hit him full in the face, but he didn't flinch away. Not a vampire, then. "Hello, Ollie," Tommy said. "I have an appointment."

Ollie looked doubtfully between Tommy and Buffy. "You were told to come alone."

"I always bring a Slayer when I'm told to come alone," said Tommy.

Ollie frowned at that. "I'll have to ask Mr. Solomons."

"You do that."

The door shut in their faces. Tommy waited patiently, scarcely moving a muscle. Buffy tried to imitate him but with little success. She rocked back and forth on her feet, she untied and retied the belt of her coat, she twisted her fingers together, and she jumped at every sharp sound that came from the town around her.

There were a lot of sounds. It was starting to get exhausting.

Fortunately, Ollie reappeared a few minutes later. "Mr. Solomons says it's fine."

"Thank you, Ollie," said Tommy, and they followed the young man into the vampires' nest.

It was cleaner than most nests Buffy had been in, though that wasn't saying much. But it really did look like— well, like a place of business, as Tommy had put it. No smears of blood, no corpses, no humans dangling from the ceiling and half-alive. There were, however, many people at work rolling barrels from one place to another and stacking them up, then sometimes unstacking them and rolling them to a different corner of the room. Others rushed about carrying clipboards or crates. Both men and vampires did this work. She could tell by the smell: blood and dust overlaid with sweat and rum. Her stomach churned.

A man in a top hat and an expensive-looking suit stood in the center of the bustle, leaning on a cane. He wore his human mask, but his unnatural stillness and the hard, predatory look on his face left no doubt in Buffy's mind that he was a vampire. Ollie led them toward the vampire, then moved to stand a few feet beside and behind him with a small nod. Buffy wondered if the cane were an affectation or if he had truly been injured enough to need it. He shuffled forward. If it were an affectation, it was a good one.

"Tommy!" the vampire cried. He clasped Tommy's hand in both of his own. "Tommy, I understand that you have had a bereavement. I am so sorry. Truly, Tommy. I will send flowers. I will send you a bouquet of flowers as a sign of my sympathy for your loss."

"No need, Alfie," Tommy said. "My sister is fine."

Alfie blinked, Tommy's hand still clutched between his own. "Ollie said you had a Slayer with you. Only one of 'em born every generation. Like us."

"There's two of us, Alfie." Tommy gestured at Buffy. "And now there's two of 'em, too. Brought here by a spell gone awry. But as soon as this business is done, she'll be off, and there'll only be the one."

"Yeah, but the one's your sister, innit?" Alfie finally dropped Tommy's hand. "Fucking off-limits, eh?"

"Fucking off-limits," Tommy agreed. "Let's talk business."

"Yes, business. Right. If you'll just follow me." Alfie turned on his heel and led them down a dark passageway, Ollie following behind. The smell of rum faded somewhat, for which Buffy was grateful, but the smell of vampire only grew stronger. "My office is being cleaned," Alfie explained as they walked. "I'm not normally a messy eater, but my last meal… Well. It squirmed and ran all over the place, dinnit? Waste of blood. Fucking disgusting."

Buffy had her stake in her hand, and Alfie's back was turned. It would be so easy to do it, to push it through the layers of his expensive suit until it hit his heart. He was powerful enough— the angle was bad enough— it wouldn't happen instantly. She'd be able to see the look of shock on his face as he fell to dust.

Tommy shot her a look of warning, and she hated him for it almost as much as she hated the vampire.

Their destination turned out to be a well-lit storeroom with a desk and several chairs set up in the middle. A telephone and a bottle of whiskey sat on the desk. Despite his limp, Alfie didn't sit. Ollie did, though; he retrieved a ledger from one of the desk drawers, drew up a chair so he could face the small gathering, and immersed himself in checking a series of figures written in black ink.

"Business. Right." Alfie said, and he squinted at Tommy. "Whiskey?"

Tommy shook his head.

"You, Slayer," said Alfie without looking away from Tommy. "Whiskey?"

Buffy looked at Tommy, but his own gaze was focused on Alfie. "Isn't it a bit early?"

That got Alfie's attention. He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Too early," he repeated. "Fuckin' 'ell, Tom, you know how to pick 'em, don't you?"

Tommy said nothing.

"Alright, alright." The grin slid off Alfie's face as though it had never been there. "Business, then. Business is good. Your boys are hard workers. Good bakers."

Bakers, Buffy thought. She looked around for bread but saw only rum.

"Business is good for me as well, Alfie."

"Is it? Is it indeed?"

Tommy gave a tiny nod. "It is, indeed."

"Because I hear you've 'ad some Irish trouble." Alfie leaned once more on his cane.

Buffy saw a muscle in Tommy's jaw jump. "There's always Irish trouble these days, Alfie."

"Yeah, well." Alfie squinted at Tommy as though trying to read his mind. "You make sure it doesn't interfere with our business."

"It's handled. It will not interfere with our business."

"It's handled," Alfie repeated. It was not a question. He turned to exchange a glance with Ollie. "It's handled, he says. It will not interfere with our business, he says."

Ollie gave a small, uncertain nod, and Alfie looked back to Tommy.

"Well, maybe I have a few concerns, right, about how you're handling your Irish troubles." Alfie took one slow, deliberate step forward, then another, his eyes never leaving Tommy's. "Maybe I think what you need is a bit of an edge. There's not many of us among the Paddies, y'know. If there's one group of mortals, right, that know how to slay a vampire, it's Catholics." He spat the word like a curse.

"Alfie, we've been through this." Despite a vampire advancing on him looking as dangerous as he could without his fangs— and possibly more dangerous because of the lack— Tommy managed to sound almost bored. "My gypsy blood would turn your stomach."

"Yeah, it would, Tommy. It would." Alfie took another step closer, even more slowly. "But Sabini does not like the fact that I 'ave allied myself with a gang of humans. He is very angry with me. Mm. Very angry. Says it's an insult to demonic cooperation an' goodwill an' the like. What do you think about that, eh?"

Tommy said nothing and moved not a single muscle as Alfie's lips pulled back in a snarl and his fangs slid out.

Buffy did not have nearly as much composure as Tommy. Her stake was in her hand in an instant, and she dropped into a crouch, ready to spring. Her breath sounded harsh and loud in the small room, even to her own ears. She adjusted her grip on her stake, the hard edge digging into her skin with a familiar, comforting sort of pain.

Ollie's reaction was slower. He fumbled for a gun and cocked it, dropping the ledger in the process, but seemed unsure of whether to point it at Tommy or Buffy. He settled for aiming it vaguely in the middle, where if it went off accidentally it would hit a barrel of rum.

Neither Tommy nor Alfie seemed to notice either of these movements; their gazes were locked on each other. Tommy's lips pressed into a thin line as Alfie took another step forward. He was barely an inch away from Tommy, now. The sleeves and hems of their coats brushed up against one another.

"You know what I think?" Alfie whispered. He opened his mouth wide and laid his fangs delicately, almost tenderly, against Tommy's neck.

Tommy took several short, sharp breaths— Buffy saw his chest rise and fall and heard the edge of shock— before he controlled himself again. It was the first indication of fear Buffy had seen from him, and it settled in then how well and truly fucked they would be if the deal went badly. This is it, Buffy thought. This was the point where she wouldn't be able to save him, no matter how fast she moved.

"What do you think, Alfie?" Tommy asked. He held himself very still. Now that Alfie's face was out of his line of sight, he fixed his gaze on one of the barrels on the opposite side of the room, looking for all the world as though he were simply a bored businessman. If Buffy couldn't see the vampire's fangs at his throat, she wouldn't have believed he was in mortal peril at all.

After a long pause, Alfie lifted his head once more and stepped away. "I think I've been at war with Sabini for the better part of five years, right, and I don't give a damn what that fucking wop thinks about demonic cooperation or good fucking will. Yeah."

Tommy let out a tiny sigh of relief.

Alfie must have heard, because he smirked. His fangs receded, and he blinked at Ollie as though he just now noticed the gun. "Ollie, Ollie, there's no need for that, is there? Go on, put it away. Tommy and his Slayer know I don't mean them any harm, isn't that right, Tommy? Eh, Slayer, isn't that right?"

It wasn't right; Buffy was pretty sure he meant Tommy harm and, more importantly, she knew damn sure she meant Alfie harm, but she straightened anyway and stowed her stake.

"Are we done here?" Tommy asked, his face impassive.

Alfie looked him up and down. "Yeah. Yeah, we're done here." Tommy turned to leave, but Alfie called him back. "Before you go, Tommy… Watch out for Sabini. He's a crafty man. Likes to play mind games. You understand?"

Tommy frowned, his blue, blue eyes searching Alfie's face like he was looking for a clue. "I understand."

Alfie nodded, a clear dismissal. "Ollie, show Tommy and his Slayer out, there's a good lad."

Not his Slayer. Buffy wanted to scream with pent-up frustration and tension. She wanted to kill something. She wanted Spike, and that was never a good sign. The overlapping scents of rum and blood and dust receded behind her as they followed Ollie out of the distillery and into the daylight. She felt as though she were emerging from underground, and she took a deep breath, then another. Even the stink of coal and horse shit was preferable to the overpowering scent of the distillery.

"Thank you, Ollie," Tommy said. Ollie gave a little nod and retreated back inside, shutting the door with a thud. Tommy passed a hand over his mouth. "Fuck," he muttered, just barely loud enough for Buffy to hear.

"He seems nice," Buffy said. "Reliable. Dependable. Maybe a bit of a risk-taker, but definitely the kind of guy I'd want to do business with."

Tommy laughed, a little hysterically Buffy thought, and crossed the yard in long strides. "Are all Slayers as fucking mad as you and Ada?"

"I don't know Ada," said Buffy as she followed, "so I really shouldn't judge. Are all gangsters as stupid as you?"

Tommy halted abruptly and spun around to face her. He took two long strides until he was barely an inch away from Buffy and towering over her. "I don't like being insulted."

"And I don't like watching people offer themselves up to be eaten." Buffy raised an eyebrow. Tommy's cold anger was disquieting, but she knew better than to give any appearance that she might be intimidated. He was a predator, and like with all predators— like with her— it was best to avoid the impression of weakness. "Shall we call it even?"

"Even?" Tommy passed his hand over his mouth again, a nervous gesture, and Buffy realized how hard he was working to maintain his composure. It would almost be impressive if the reason for it weren't his own colossal idiocy. "Yes. Even."

"Great." Buffy pushed with one finger at the center of his chest, harder and harder until he was forced to step away. "Let me tell you about something called personal boundaries…"