Note: Thanks to Godiva for the Bloody Awful Haiku
Chapter 4
Dear Buffy,
I think I feel better today. Last night, I went a little postal. Wesley called it a panic attack. It was about as fun as it sounds. I ended up crying all over Angel. Again. Told you I would. I told them everything that happened, too. It feels like I'm lighter now, like, you know, I was carrying all that around by myself, and now I'm not.
Cordy and I had a good talk this morning. We laid around in bed for like an hour. I asked her what the worst thing that ever happened to her was, and she said the worst time of her life was when she was staying in L.A. but hadn't found Angel yet. She was barely making it and was scared she wouldn't, and she worried that she'd end up homeless or dead. She said she didn't know how she was going to pay for food sometimes, and she cried herself to sleep a lot of nights. That does sound scary. I guess everyone's got horror stories.
Speaking of which, the Fang Gang has a new case. There's a mother and daughter staying here, Sandra and Sarah Anne. They're running from Sandra's creepo mage husband. He's trying to kill Sarah Anne. I think she could give me a run for my money in the "life sucks" category, and she's only five.
Anyway, I wanted to let you know I'm doing better. I'm trying to be strong, I really am. Cordy says the strongest thing you can do sometimes is ask for help, so that's what I'm trying to do.
I really, really didn't mean what I said yesterday, Buffy. I love you. I really, really love you. I know you had to do what you did. It's okay. I'm okay. At least, I'm going to be. I love you.
***
Dawn finished her diary entry just as Cordelia emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered and made up.
"Ready for breakfast, sweetie?" asked the Seer.
Dawn's stomach growled. "Really ready. I'm starved."
A delicious smell was wafting out of the breakfast nook when they reached it. Angel had made waffles. He loaded up two plates and set them on the table, then turned to Dawn.
She went eagerly into his embrace. "How are you doing?" Angel murmured.
"Better. Thanks for . . ." She trailed off.
"Anytime." He released her and looked seriously into her face. "We're all here for you anytime you need us."
"I know." She gave him a quick second hug, then made for her waffle. After smothering it in butter and syrup, she started wolfing it down, pausing only long enough for a few gulps of milk and orange juice. Cordelia watched her with amusement and satisfaction before turning to her own breakfast. Angel left.
A few minutes later, Dawn noticed Spike standing in the doorway, looking oddly unsure of himself. "Hey, Spike," she mumbled around a mouthful of waffle.
"You okay this morning, Little Bit?" the vampire asked, sounding hesitant.
Dawn had a feeling she was going to have to handle this question from everyone today. "I'm good. How about you?"
"I'm evil." Spike's usual devil-may-care attitude seemed to reassert itself. With mischief in his eyes, he sauntered over to the table, cleared a few items out of his way, and slid onto it. He stretched out, eyeing Cordelia. "Morning, Miss Cordelia. Can I do anything for you?"
"You can take a walk in the sun," suggested Cordelia, not missing a beat.
Spike winked at Dawn, enjoying this. Carefully, he reached over to Cordelia's plate, collected a little maple syrup on two fingers, and sucked them clean one at a time. "I was thinking more along the lines of attending to your . . . personal needs. Got any of those, luv?"
Cordelia didn't pick up the bait, having noticed something. "Okay, I don't remember you packing along any baggage when you invaded, so where did you come up with the leather pants? And please don't say you found them in Angel's closet."
Spike made a disgusted noise. "Like I'd wear anything of his, anyway. Found these in a store last night. They fit me so nice, I took 'em. Don't you like them?" He ran a hand down his thigh.
"You stole them?" Cordelia demanded.
"Of course." He caught on to her expression and leaned forward. "Did something naughty, did I? You going to spank me?"
Dawn nearly choked on her waffle. Cordelia spluttered, then finally managed, "All that peroxide has affected your brain, you know that? Go ooze off someplace else, slimy."
Spike, grinning at his verbal coup, oozed off the table and over to the refrigerator. He examined the Magnetic Poetry briefly, then started rearranging it. "Today's poetry lesson, ladies, is the haiku. Five syllables for the first line, seven for the second, and five for the third." He finished what he was doing, winked at Cordelia, and made for the door. He nearly ran into Angel, who was coming back in. "Morning, Peaches."
"Why do you call him Peaches?" asked Dawn, having gotten herself back under control.
"He looks like a Peaches to me. Doesn't he look like a Peaches to you?"
Angel smiled at Spike, not an ounce of amusement touching his eyes. "Spike. I'm so glad I ran into you. I've got something to show you." He grabbed the younger vampire by the upper arm and dragged him over to the fridge, which he opened. "See anything wrong in there?"
"No beer?" guessed Spike.
"No blood." Angel pointed. "Yesterday, there were three containers. Today, there's half of one. Care to explain?"
"What, you think I had something to do with it?"
"No, I think Dawn drank it." This earned a fervent "Gross!" from the table. "If you can't show a little self-control, you're no longer welcome here. Understood?"
Spike looked not at all repentant. "Perfectly, Peaches."
Angel looked him up and down. "Did you steal those pants from my room?"
That got Cordelia's attention. "Waitasec—you keep leather pants in your closet?"
Angel's expression turned guilty. "Well, they're expensive, you know, and I hate to throw anything away . . ."
He was saved by Wesley's voice calling down to them that Oz was on the phone. Cordelia stood up, putting her empty dish in the sink, but she didn't look like she'd set the subject aside for long. She pointed at Angel.
"We're going to have a long talk about leather pants, fang-face. That's just like saying 'I expect to go evil again someday soon.'"
Angel elected to let that pass. "Dawn, I know I said you wouldn't be on permanent baby-sitting duty, but would you mind keeping an eye on Sarah Anne while we conference?"
"No problem." Dawn drained the last of her orange juice and followed Cordelia in putting her dishes in the sink.
Cordelia, meanwhile, had gone over to the fridge. The Magnetic Poetry now read:
"You know you want it
No one resists the big bad
Go ahead—bite me!"
"Like it, luv?" asked Spike.
Cordelia turned on him with a disgusted expression. "Tell me, did you get the name William the Bloody because you're such a bloody awful poet?"
Spike looked hurt, but his protest was drowned out by Angel's laughter.
***
"Hello, L.A." Oz's voice was mellow as always as it spoke out of the speakerphone. Wesley, Cordelia, Angel, Gunn, Rebecca, Sandra, and Kate were all gathered around the desk it sat on.
"Oz," said Angel.
"Angel," said Oz.
"How are you?"
"Good. You?"
"Good."
"Good."
"Hey, Oz," said Cordelia.
Oz spread cheerfully laconic greetings to all in the room before handing the phone over to his girlfriend. She quickly showed herself to be quite a different type than the werewolf.
"This is Thia Matsoukis, comin' at you live from the den of the werewolf. Hello, L.A!" Thia's voice was a warm, full-bodied alto with a mischievous undertone. The gathered members of the investigation team exchanged a look. Apparently, Oz had gotten himself involved with A Character.
"Hello, Thia. This is Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," said Wesley. "Thank you very much for agreeing to consult with us."
"Not a problem. Especially when I get to talk to someone with as sexy a voice as you." Wesley's ears went bright red, and Cordelia stifled a laugh. "So. What's the sitch?"
Sandra sensed she was up. "Hi, I'm Sandra. It's, um, a bit weird, I'll warn you."
Thia snorted on the other end. "I sleep with a werewolf. Not much weirds me."
Sandra laughed a bit herself, then told her story for the third time in as many days. Thia periodically asked questions for clarification, but otherwise did not interrupt. As the story wound to a close, the young mage sighed loudly.
"I think your witch friends were right," Thia concluded. "This guy sounds like a mage. Damn, what a piece of work!"
Angel leaned forward. "Thia, I'm Angel."
"You certainly are," said the voice on the other end. "Wow, you're gorgeous! Oz, why didn't you tell me how beautiful he is? Oh, sure, you never found him that attractive." The group in the office exchanged nonplused looks. Thia laughed again. "Sorry. One of my gifts is farsight—the ability to see people, things, and events in other places—and I've got a pretty good picture of all of you right now."
"Can all magi do that?" asked Angel.
"Nope. All of us have certain abilities, like calling light, bringing down the elements, moving things with our minds, kenning, etc. But each mage also has a set of abilities which is unique to him or herself. My specific talents are farsight, healing, and transmutation. I'm also developing a minor talent in precognition, but that's hardly worth talking about."
"What can you tell us about Andrew Burnham, from what you've heard?" asked Wesley.
"Mmm. It's a little tough to say, since I've never met him, but I can tell he's got a strong gift for manipulating weather, possible transmutation, and most likely telepathy. Those are just what I can tell from what Sandra said. He's probably got one or two other talents." Thia paused a moment. "The problem is, he's also messing in black magic. That's not good on an epic scale."
"Is it a common thing for a mage to practice witchcraft?" Wesley asked.
"Not common at all, thank God," answered Thia. "Factoid: magery and witchcraft do not mix. The only reason any mage would try to balance the two is in order to gain power, and you know what they say about power re: corruption."
Cordelia raised a hand. "Okay, maybe someone could explain to the class what the difference between magery and witchcraft is. This is Cordelia, by the way."
"Hi, Cordelia. Oz did mention you were 'kind of pretty.' My man likes his understatements." Thia seemed to be aiming that jab away from the phone. "It's complicated, but let me boil it down for you. Witchcraft isn't inborn in you; magery is. If you don't show an inclination toward magery by the time you hit puberty, you never will. Most magi are born from at least one mage parent. Witchcraft, on the other hand, can be learned. Witches invoke supernatural forces and spirits; magi don't. Magi manipulate natural forces and use natural energies, not supernatural ones. While witches often practice Wicca or other types of paganism, magi can fall anywhere along the religious spectrum. We can be Christian, Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, Zoroastrian, whatever. Our powers are strictly aspiritual. There are a lot of other minute points, but those are the main dividing lines.
"There is, though, one other major thing about magery that might be a big point here: mage powers are strictly limited. By that I mean that while you can refine your abilities, hone them to as sharp an edge as you want, you're born with a certain amount of power and once you've reached your limit, that's it. You'll never grow any stronger than that birth limit allows. And once you've developed all your specific talents, which normally happens by your mid-twenties, you'll never develop any more. Game over."
There was a moment of silence in the office. Angel turned to Sandra.
"How old was Andrew when he married you?"
Sandra shook herself visibly. "Twenty-six.
"So most likely, he'd already found that power limit," deduced Wesley. "I would speculate that when he discovered it, he began to work in witchcraft in order to augment his power."
"Sounds about right to me," agreed Thia. "You know, the third Article of the Code of the White says, 'Be content, and use what power you have to do good.' Sounds like this guy missed that lesson."
"What is the Code of the White?" asked Wesley.
"It's the code most magi live their lives by. It gives guidelines on how to use your power and on what's forbidden. The Articles are the positive 'Thou shalt' side, and the Strictures are the 'Thou shalt not.' Meddling in black magic is at the very top of the Strictures' hit list."
"So what happens if you violate the Strictures?" asked Angel.
Thia chuckled grimly. "Then you get a visit by the Order of the White, and that's the last thing you want. It kind of surprises me that this guy hasn't gotten himself in deep Dutch with them yet. He must've figured out a way to fly below their radar. I can tell you one thing, though: if the White did find out what this guy's doing, you wouldn't have to worry about him anymore."
"There any way we can get in touch with these White folks?" Gunn asked.
"Uh-huh. I think there's one teaching at UCLA, in fact: Dr. Zanita Banerjee, another Water Mage. My father knew her. In fact, she wanted him to join the White." Thia's voice had a touch of pride at that. "He didn't want to be at the beck and call of the Order, though, so he declined. Still, it was a great honor to be asked."
Questions had been piling up in Cordelia's brain. "Okay, maybe I'm just dumb, but I feel like I'm missing a lot here. Could you explain a few things? Like, what's a White? And what the heck is a Water Mage?"
Thia laughed again. "You're right. I am using a lot of terms non-magi wouldn't understand. First things first, I'll give you a crash course on your basic four kinds of magi. First, you've got your Water Magi, like me. Our powers are strongest when we're around bodies of water, or during a rainstorm. Living near the Oregon coast keeps my energy levels high. Most Water Magi will live near coastlines, in fact.
"Second, you've got your Earth Magi. They're strongest where there's a close connection to the land. That can mean anything from geological formations to farm country, and their power spikes when there's seismic activity. You'll find a lot of Earth Magi living along the edges of tectonic plates. They're especially fond of Alaska.
"Third, you've got Air Magi. They're the rarest kind. You'll almost never find them in or around cities, because they need clean air. Their most enviable talent is that they can fly. Some can even shapeshift into birds, but those ones are so rare you'd be lucky to meet one in a vampire's lifetime.
"Finally, there are the Fire Magi. The name is deceptive, because their power isn't actually tied to fire. Fire Magi are also known as Wild Magi, probably because their powers are so unpredictable. They spike at regular intervals with no other factors present, and they'll sometimes manifest talents they've never had, be able to use them for a day or two, and then lose them again. When their powers do spike, they're the strongest of us all. The one constant is that their powers seem strongest when they're around large numbers of people, so you'll find most Fire Magi in big cities. Got all that?"
"I think so," said Wesley. "Now, what about the Order of the White?"
"They're our watchdogs," Thia said. "For thousands of years, magi lived without any controls. Most were fairly decent sorts, but you know how power is. Some magi would set themselves up as rulers or even gods, and then they'd have battles with other magi, and innocent people would suffer. For that matter, normal good magi would have to conceal their powers for fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention from either bad magi or ordinary humans who feared them.
"Then, along about the fifth century A.D., one dark mage did something especially stupid: he broke down a dimensional barrier and let a flood of Faeries into this world in the British Isles. He'd gained the knowledge of how to control them—probably the same tricks Andrew Burnham has figured out. Problem was, the Fey didn't take too well to magi trying to enslave them, and Bad Things started happening that, again, a lot of ordinary humans got caught in.
"This situation goes on for a bit. Then, one day, a man enters who's both a mage and has Faery blood. Can you guess who this guy is?"
"Merlin?" guessed Wesley.
"Give the man a gold star! It was indeed the Emrys. He and some of his fellow magi banded together to end the war with the Fey. Merlin himself battled the dark mage who started all of this nonsense and won. Then, of course, there were some long, drawn-out negotiations with the Mab, or Queen, of the Fey, and in the end, she agreed to end the war as long as someone kept an eye on the magi of our world. Hence, Merlin founded the Order of the White and wrote up the Code, and ever since, for nearly one-and-a-half millennia, the White have enforced it."
"What exactly does this Code entail?" asked Wesley.
"Oh, not too much you can violate without trying to. Mostly just do no harm with your powers, never use your powers offensively against non-magi, don't mess with time, keep your hands off the weather unless you know what you're doing, and, oh yeah, stay away from the witchcraft."
"I'm still not getting that whole thing," said Cordelia. "I mean, is there a specific reason why it's so bad to be a witch and a mage at the same time?"
"Yeah." Thia sounded very serious. "To put it simply, it gives you too much power. A mage has a degree of control over the natural; a witch has some control over the supernatural. Combine the two, and you've got someone on a serious power trip. You know, they tend to burn themselves out that way anyhow. Drawing on so many sources of energy, sooner or later they'll end up blowing a gasket and living as a drooling idiot for the rest of their very short lives. But do they ever listen? Nooo. So the White have to step in before they do too much damage."
Sandra spoke up, sounding hesitant. "What do the White do . . . I mean, when they catch someone like Andrew, what do they do to them?"
There was a pause before Thia spoke again. "It depends. A White Tribunal is convened and decisions are made. If the offense isn't too serious, if the mage is young and inexperienced or if it's a first-time offense, more often than not the White will let them off with a warning and make them hook up with a mentor.
"On the other hand, if damage has been done, if there's no question the mage knew what he or she was doing was wrong, the most common punishment is that the White will literally blast the power out of them. They'll send so much energy into the offending mage that he or she won't be able to absorb it, and it short-circuits the mage's own power. When it's all over, you've got an ex-mage who will never wield mage power again. I've been told the whole process is extremely unpleasant.
"In very rare cases, the Tribunal will hand down a death sentence. As I said, though, that's very rare. I can only think of a half-dozen or so cases I've heard about in which a death sentence was carried out by the White, and they were all, believe me, extreme."
Wesley nodded, looking at Sandra. "We understand. Tell me, Thia, do you have any idea what variety of mage Andrew is?"
"I'd say either Water or Fire," said Thia. "He lived in a city relatively close to the coast, in an area without any remarkable geology."
Sandra sighed, leaning on the table. "I think—I think that maybe the White would be a good idea. I mean, if you think they'd believe me. Do you think they would, Thia?"
"Oh, yeah," said Thia without hesitation. "Thing is, even if he has managed to keep himself hidden from the White before now, they'll still be able to track how he's used his power if their attention is drawn to him. Every time a mage uses power, it leaves a sort of imprint. If he's using power augmented by black magic, they'd also be able to sense that. They'd investigate, form a Tribunal, and I guarantee he couldn't run from that."
"Why would he be trying to kill Sarah Anne?" Sandra asked suddenly, almost interrupting Thia. "Do you know if that Faery woman was lying to me or if he really is trying to kill her?"
"Fey don't lie," stated Thia. "We know that much about them. They can be tricksters, yes, but if they speak, they speak the truth. And no, I don't know exactly . . . oh, Great Emrys, how old did you say your daughter is?"
Something in Thia's tone made everyone in the room tense. Sandra looked downright frightened as she answered the question. "She's six on Saturday."
"Great Emrys," Thia repeated. "Get the White. Now."
"Why?" asked Angel.
"Because of what he's about to do." Thia sounded sick. "There is a magic that is so deeply forbidden most of us won't even discuss it. Certain rituals, deeply bound in the darkest arts, that can drain the power of one mage into another. The worst of these is one in which a mage child's potential—not just mage power, but all the potential that child has—can be drained into an adult mage. Most magi are born to at least one mage parent, and that parent is able to recognize whether his or her child will grow up to have mage power. If Andrew sensed power in Sarah Anne and has decided to drain her potential to gain more power for himself—generally, the child doesn't survive, and the adult mage grows at least twice as strong as he was before. Here's the thing: the ritual must take place on the child's sixth birthday."
"Oh, God," whispered Sandra.
Thia continued. "The White will take this seriously, believe me. They'll take every step possible to protect you and your daughter. You know how I told you the death penalty is rarely invoked by the Tribunal? Well, two of the times I know of, it was invoked for magi who had performed just this ritual. In fact, not only did the White kill them, they banished their souls from this worlds-realm for eternity. That's how evil it is. If you have any objection to seeing Andrew dead, believe me when I say the best thing for him is to make sure he can never perform the ritual."
The people gathered in the office exchanged looks. Sandra looked like she might either faint or throw up, and Kate looked almost as sick. Finally, Wesley spoke again.
"Thia, thank you very much for consulting with us. You say this Dr. Banerjee works at UCLA?"
"Yeah. She should still be there. My father only died two years ago, and that's where he knew her from—he used to teach there, too." Thia paused briefly. "You know what? I'm going to Fed-Ex you guys something that might help. It's called a Water Sphere. What it is is a crystal globe with water inside it as well as an infusion of my own power. I'll also email instructions for using it. It's not that complicated, and it should be helpful if it comes down to fighting the bastard."
"Thank you for that as well," said Wesley. "You've been a great help, Thia."
"Just wish I could do more," she said. "On behalf of all magi who aren't total bastards, I'd like to apologize for this guy's existence."
Thia and Oz signed off, and the members of Angel Investigations were left with their thoughts.
***
Dawn sat on the stone bench in the courtyard and watched as Sarah Anne played. The child seemed perfectly content to play by herself with her one doll, which wasn't in great shape. Occasionally, Sarah Anne would say something directly to Dawn.
"These are my favorite flowers," Sarah Anne said suddenly, pointing at a patch of pansies. "I like them because they're purple. I like purple. It's my favorite color."
"I like blue," said Dawn.
"I like purple 'cause it's prettier. On my birthday, I'm going to get lots and lots of purple presents. Will you come to my birthday party?"
"Sure."
"I'm going to have a big party. There's gonna be lots of people, and cake and ice cream, and purple balloons, and lots of presents."
Dawn thought about it. From what Sarah Anne had said the other day, she didn't have many friends. Sandra probably hadn't planned a party, since she didn't even know where she and her daughter would be on Saturday. But the little girl had built her birthday up in her own mind as some sort of amazing event.
It's not fair, thought Dawn. She's going to be so disappointed. Doesn't her life suck enough already? Wish I could—
A sudden thought occurred to Dawn, and the teen smiled as Sarah Anne rambled on about her wonderful birthday party. It might be tough to convince Wesley, but Cordelia would help, and Dawn was pretty sure she could get Angel to go along. She would, of course, need to run it past Sandra, but Sarah Anne's mother would probably be only too eager to agree to Dawn's idea.
"Do you have bad dreams?" Sarah Anne's abrupt change of subject wrenched Dawn away from her plans.
Dawn nodded. "I have really bad dreams. Do you?"
The little girl climbed up on the bench beside the teen. "I dream that ugly monsters come and take me away from Mama. I got a bad daddy. What do you dream about?"
Dawn swallowed. "I dream I'm up really high, and there's a monster with me. He wants to hurt me, so I scream for my sister. Then I remember she . . . died."
"Oh. Is they going to make my bad daddy go away?"
"Yes. They will. That's what they do, help people."
"Like superheroes?"
"Like superheroes. That's what they are, you know. That's what my sister was, too."
Sarah Anne looked at Dawn. "Did she have powers?"
"Oh, yes. She was really strong and fast, and she could jump really high, and if she got hurt, she'd heal really fast."
"Could she fly?"
For a long, long moment, Dawn was silent. She finally managed to speak. "No. No, she couldn't fly."
Sarah Anne seemed to contemplate this, and then she went back to play. Dawn remained on the bench, deep in thought.
***
Spike had checked up on Sarah Anne and Dawn in the courtyard some time ago and, satisfied that they seemed to be safe, had taken to wandering the hotel looking for anything he could have fun with and/or swipe. His footsteps had finally taken him to Angel's suite.
He hit the closet first, muttering choice comments about his grandsire's fashion sense, then rooted around the rest of the rooms. Nothing terribly interesting to the younger vampire presented itself, although a nice gold chain did find its way into his pocket. In the bathroom, he examined Angel's hair gel.
"Same brand he was using in Sunnydale," Spike murmured. "The man really is immovable." Then he poured it down the sink.
The bed was Spike's last stop. It was carefully made, so carefully that it delighted Spike. Short-sheeting worked so much better when the victim was anal about these things. As he finished that task, the blond vampire's foot hit something tucked underneath the bed. Naturally, he investigated.
It turned out to be two drawing pads. Spike sat on the bed and leafed through the top one, discovering portraits of Angel's coworkers, the lovely blond Kate, Dawn, a few people Spike didn't recognize, and, surprisingly enough, Spike himself. Drusilla, too. Rather good pictures, too, if Spike recalled correctly from the last time he'd seen a photograph of himself.
"Hm," he grunted. "Hasn't lost his touch, then."
Something that did puzzle Spike a little was the fact that some pages seemed to have been torn out. Angel seemed the type to keep everything he drew, whether he judged it good or not.
Shrugging the question aside, Spike then opened up the second sketch pad. And stopped dead.
It was filled entirely with Buffy. Some of the leaves had obviously been torn from the first pad and transferred. It was Buffy in every mood, drawn in every style. Some pictures were colored, others were black and white, and one in particular was done in shades of sepia, like an old photograph. Buffy smiling, Buffy sad, Buffy angry, Buffy playful.
Buffy in love.
Spike knew the expression well, though he'd never seen it on Buffy's face directed at himself. But here it was: eyes shining, mouth soft, expression totally open.
For Angel.
Spike lifted the pad from his lap, holding it up to catch the light. As he did so, something slipped from between the pages. It was a letter. Spike picked it up from the floor and pulled it out of its envelope.
The letter smelled of Buffy, and he recognized her handwriting at once. Almost against his will, he began to read.
Dear Angel,
I had to write and tell you again how much your visit meant to me. Words seem so small, so inadequate, because you coming to me, holding me, meant the whole world that night. Everything seemed so wrong when I buried my mother, like nothing would ever be all right again. But then you came, and for those hours I spent in your arms, I knew it would be all right. That I would be all right.
Do you remember last year? Of course you do. I'm trying to forget parts of it. It seemed like we couldn't even be in the same city together. The gang would get their "intervention" look anytime I even mentioned you, and don't tell me Cordelia didn't duck and cover every time I came to town. She had good reason to, considering that horrible fight we had the last time I visited.
Maybe it's just what ex-lovers do, make each other miserable. I'm not going to get into that, because you've apologized a million times, and I've apologized a million times, and really, it doesn't matter.
The thing that matters, Angel, is that I was waiting there at my mother's grave because I knew—I knew—that you would be there for me. There was never even any question about it. I knew you'd come, and you'd hold me close and tell me I'd be all right, and you'd say everything I needed to hear. With you, I could be real. I could be weak, and you'd be there to catch me. Just like you always have. Just like I know you always will.
I haven't said this in a long time, way too long, but Angel—I love you. I still do. It's changed from how I felt when I was in high school. It's not the boyfriend/girlfriend "I need to be with Angel every second" thing. It's more like a constant background to who I am. No matter what happens, no matter who else is in my life, you'll always have a part of my heart, Angel, and I'm okay with that. More than okay. I'm glad that part is yours, because I know it's safe with you.
And that part you left with me? Don't worry. I'll take good care of it. Promise.
Thank you again, Angel. Words are never enough, but they're all I have. Thanks for being there, thanks for promising to take care of Dawnie if anything ever happens to me, thanks for believing in me. I only hope I can be there for you, too, whenever you need me. Remember that I am
Always Your Girl,
Buffy
A muscle twitched in Spike's jaw. Carefully, almost ritualistically, he re-folded the letter and tucked it back within its envelope. He used his vampiric sense of smell to detect the pages the letter had been tucked between—the pages that smelled of Buffy—and placed it back inside. Then he put the drawing pads exactly where he'd found them before leaving the room.
***
"Banerjee. Ban-er-jee. No, I don't know how to spell it—yes, I'll hold." Wesley sighed in frustration, grumbling under his breath about bureaucrats.
"How's it going?" asked Cordelia as she entered the office, holding a cup of peach yogurt.
Wesley looked up from the phone. He'd removed his glasses, fully revealing the irritated line growing steadily deeper between his eyes. "Apparently, tracking down a professor at UCLA requires the assistance of at least five different offices. What kind of a three-ring circus are you paying for with your tax dollars, anyway? This is what I'm trying to get dual citizenship for?" He started as someone finally got back on the line. "Yes, hello? Ah, wonderful. Yes, please transfer me."
Cordelia sat on the edge of the desk. "You think this is bad, you should try applying. When I took my acting class last fall, I got routed through eight different offices in three different buildings before I discovered they had me down as a chemistry major. Straightening that out took two months."
"Britain, I think, wins the world prize for truly heinous tabloid journalism," Wesley opined, "but America is far and away ahead of everyone else when it comes to hordes of unnecessary bureaucrats infesting every possible corner of life."
"I'll have to go with you on that one."
Wesley continued to wait on the phone as Cordelia perused the Lifestyles section of the paper, and finally, someone picked up. "Yes? This is Dr. Banerjee's office? Oh, thank God. Is she in? No? Do you know when she will be in?" Short pause. "Well, if you could leave a message for her to call us after her class," Wesley began, but was apparently interrupted. He listened again. "Very well, after her meeting, then. Our number is . . ." There was another long pause. Cordelia could just hear an annoyingly perky voice on the other end. "Will she be back to her office at all today?" Wesley finally asked in exasperation. After yet another pause, he nodded and said, "Fine. If you could leave her a message to call Angel Investigations, I'd be most grateful. Please tell her it's urgent, and no matter when she gets in, someone will be here." He gave the office aide their number and hung up. "Bugger it all," he muttered as he did so.
"So what's the news?" asked Cordelia around a mouthful of yogurt.
"The news is that Dr. Banerjee won't be available until 7:00 PM at the earliest. However, the aide did say she's very good at returning calls. That gives me hope." The Englishman sighed deeply. "We're running out of time rapidly. I do hope this all goes smoothly."
***
In one of the first-floor bedrooms, Rebecca Martin-Pryce sat on a bed, absorbed in an ancient, leather-bound tome. Her forehead crinkled as she mentally translated the Gaelic it was written in. Periodically, she would consult one of three other books she had appropriated from her uncle's library. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright.
She flipped a few pages in one of the other books, then compared something in it to something in the huge volume in her lap. After carefully pronouncing a few words in Gaelic, then Latin, the young woman let out a squeak of delight.
"Slayer-Reject, am I, William the Bloody?" she murmured, smiling. "This is perfect. Just perfect . . ."
***
"The problem with being a vampire," Spike declaimed to the empty penthouse, "is that it's so damned difficult to get properly drunk." He followed this declaration with a gulp of whiskey, finishing off the bottle in his hand. It was swiftly tossed aside and replaced with a full one.
"Watch where you're throwing those," said a voice from the doorway. Spike turned and looked the speaker up and down.
"Well. If it isn't one of the Three Musketeers," the vampire snorted. "Afternoon, Porthos."
Gunn glared at him. "Name's Gunn.'"
"My apologies, Gunn." Spike tried the name on for size. "Gunn. Should've gotten a name like Spike, Gunn. See, any idiot can shoot a gun and kill somebody, but it takes brains and balls to get up close and do 'em in with a railroad spike through the head. Took me awhile to figure out where to put the thing to kill 'em instantly—or not, depending on what you were plannin' to do with 'em. Guns, you just bang! Kill at a distance. Where's the fun in that?"
"In the first place, I don't kill for fun. In the second place, Gunn is my last name, not some handle I picked up. In the third place, didn't Angel tell you no drinking?"
"He did indeed. Here's to you, Gunn." Spike toasted the young man with the bottle and took another swig, then sat down. "I'm havin' a bad day, mate. Wanna hear about it?"
Gunn looked at him. "Do I look like I want to hear about it?"
"So why're you up here, if not to listen to my sorrows?"
In answer, Gunn walked across the penthouse and collected a few weapons that were lying on the floor—an axe, a broadsword, a pair of sais, and a quarterstaff. "Cordy's doing an inventory of the weapons, and she asked me to bring down anything I found up here, 'cause this is one of Angel's practice rooms."
Spike laughed. "Doing Miss Cordelia's bidding. I should've guessed. The lot of you are so pathetically whipped." He raised the bottle again. "Here's to Miss Cordelia, she of the nicely-rounded posterior and manicured fingers, every one of which has a man wrapped neatly around it."
"What are you trying to pull with her anyway? You think she'd really go for a bloodsucker like you?"
The vampire slowly got to his feet, the glint of battle growing in his eyes. "Does it bother you, Gunn? Does it bother you that we've both got approximately the same chance with the lovely Cordelia?"
"You're trippin'," declared Gunn.
"You think you've got more of a chance with her than me?" Spike laughed again. "The girl does have standards, you know. You think a street rat like yourself could ever make time with Queen C?"
"Okay, first place: I'm not after Queen C. Second place: you keep your hands where they belong—which is way, far away from her—or you get dusted. Got that, Blondie?"
"You really think you've got the stones to kill me?"
"I know I do." Gunn held Spike's gaze steadily. "I've been dusting vamps half my life. I even staked my own baby sister when she got vamped. So don't think I'll feel bad about doing you."
"Staked your own baby sister." Spike gave the young man a truly artful look of shock. "Why would you ever do a thing like that?"
"What, you deaf? She was. A vampire."
"I got that part. What I'm asking is: what did she do to deserve getting staked? Slaughter your best friends? Kill your mum? Was she out on the streets draining toddlers at random? What heinous act could have prompted her own brother to kill her?"
Anger, pain, and confusion warred for dominance in Gunn's features. "I staked her so she wouldn't do anything like that. So she wouldn't be like you."
"Like me?" Spike asked, looking perversely innocent. "Me, valiant defender of sweet little girls with brown hair and big blue eyes? Me, trusted comrade-in-arms of the Slayer?"
"You know what I mean!"
"Do I, now?" The vampire's face suddenly cleared of its contrived confusion. "Oh, you didn't want her to be like Angel! Now I get it."
Gunn had had enough. He dropped the weapons and strode forward, grabbing Spike by the collar. "Angel's good, Bleach. Not like you."
Spike seemed unfazed by his position. "That's right. You never met Angel without his soul. You should've seen him back in the day. Want to hear about how he earned his 'Scourge of Europe' merit badge?"
"Shut up!"
"But then, he got a second chance. Guess that was too much to ask you to give your poor li'l sis."
That was too much. Gunn pulled back a fist and struck Spike full in the face, knocking him across the room. "You don't know anything about me and Alonna, so stop messin' with my head!"
"Alonna." Spike rolled over to find his bottle of whiskey sitting nearby and lifted it in a toast. "Here's to Alonna. May she rest in peace, wherever it is you sent her to."
The young man stood glaring at the vampire, trembling with rage, eyes filled with pain. After a moment, he finally spoke again, voice shaking. "You wanna be staying away from me, vampire. I swear, if I catch you alone again, I will kill you."
Gunn turned, gathered up the weapons he'd dropped, and left the penthouse. After he was gone, Spike toasted the empty doorway and drained the rest of the bottle.
That one was tossed in another random direction, and Spike drew a third bottle out of the stash he'd created for himself.
"Here's to love," he said, and downed a gulp. "I'm through with you, you bastard. Hear that? I'm through with love." A thought struck him.
" 'I'm through with love, I'll never fall again,'" he sang. " 'Said adieu to love, don't ever call again.'" He looked puzzled. "Or is it the other way around? No, gotta be that. What's the next words?"
After thinking about it for a few moments, he continued. " 'For I must have you or no one, and so I'm through with love.' Can't ever remember the next part. Something about—oh, yeah. 'I've locked my heart, I'll keep my feelings there, I've stopped my heart with icy, frigid air, and I mean to care for no one, 'cause I'm through with love.'"
He'd wandered into the middle of the room by now, and he threw his arms wide, belting out the next words. " 'Why did you lead me to think you could care? You didn't need me, for you had your share, of friends around you to hound you and swear, with deep emotion, devotion to you.'" He looked satisfied. "Take that, poncy Host. I can sing."
Spike swallowed another few ounces of whiskey before singing the final stanza. " 'Goodbye to spring and all it meant to me, it could never bring the thing that used to be, for I must have you or no one, and so I'm through with love.'"
He stood there, then, blankly staring at the wall. "Through with love," he muttered. He examined the last of the whiskey in the bottle. "Here's to you, Summers. You've officially made me doff my proud title of 'Love's Bitch.' Rest in peace, Slayer." He drank off the last of the alcohol, then tossed the bottle behind him.
A few seconds later, he came to the realization that the bottle, in total defiance of all the laws of physics, had not hit the floor and shattered. He felt he ought to be curious as to what had caused this phenomenon, so he turned around.
The bottle was, in fact, suspended in mid-air . . . by Angel's hand. The elder vampire was examining it with a contemplative expression. Spike laughed and sat down hard on his bum.
"That's a neat trick," he said.
Angel nodded pensively. "Spike, I think you're drunk."
"I beg your pardon," sniffed Spike. "The technical term is 'shit-faced,' thank you very much." Angel nodded again, looking placid. Spike was severely disappointed. "You're not killing me, I notice."
Angel came further in, still looking at the bottle. Finally, he crouched down in front of Spike, setting the bottle on the floor between them. "Actually, I had a bet going with myself as to when you'd do this, seeing as you've been systematically breaking all my rules."
"Swore in front of Dawn yesterday," Spike said helpfully.
"I figured that would be one of the first to go. And you beat my schedule for getting roaring drunk by several hours. I honestly didn't think you'd hit the sauce until tonight at the earliest."
Spike thought that was funny. "I'm above average!"
Angel chuckled, then reached out, grabbed Spike's collar, and forced the younger vampire to meet his eyes. "Why was Gunn spitting nails when he came downstairs a few minutes ago?"
"We were just chattin'," Spike shrugged. "Small talk. Weather. Sports. Families."
"Gunn's family is an off-limits subject. Understood?"
"You oughta talk to him. Got something in common, after all—you both killed your baby sisters. Wasn't li'l what's-her-name about Dawn's age when you drained her dry?"
"A year or two younger. Get sober, Spike."
"Why?!" Spike suddenly shouted. "So I can think about her again? Not likely, mate. Not bloody likely. I haven't got a fondness for pain." He thought about that. "Actually, I do. But I don't like this inside stuff." He thumped a finger on his chest. "Not proper pain. Just dull ache."
The younger vampire forced himself to his feet and stumbled toward his stash of booze. Angel was there before him, blocking the way. He didn't look angry, though; he looked curious.
"You're grieving," the elder vampire noted. "You're really grieving her, aren't you?" For some reason, neither vampire could bring himself to say Buffy's name.
Spike stared at him. "Your perception knows no bounds, poofy sire. Yes, I'm grieving her. That or I've got this hole in my heart for nothing. I'd hate to think that." He started to walk around Angel, then stopped and looked the elder vampire in the face again, suddenly angry. "You're not the only one who's got the right to be in love with her, you know. You're not the only one who gets to be in pain now she's gone. What makes your grief so special, anyway?"
"I never said it was."
"Oh, but everyone treats you special. I was the first one to cry for her—me and Red started about the same time, rather. But you, all the Scoobies said you'd be so devastated, and Red cried and said she had to tell you personally and all that rot, and you came, you with your little support group, and they all fussed and fluttered and worried about how you were taking it, but did anyone think of Spike? No, Spike'll get along just fine. He's a vampire, you know, without the sodding soul that makes Angel so special. Send Little Bit off with Angel, he'll protect her better than Spike, and he won't corrupt her the way Spike will. If Red and her lovergirl hadn't seen me here, they'd never have even noticed I was gone. Or maybe Xander would have made some comment about how nice it is around Sunnyhell now that he's not seeing me anymore. Wanker."
Angel cocked his head. "That was a spectacular pity party, Spike. I'm in awe."
"Wasn't it, though?" Spike giggled unsteadily. "I deserve it, don't you think?" He waved a hand. "No, don't say it. I don't. I know I don't. I should've seen it coming, and I missed it. I should be in pain."
"You should've seen what coming?" asked Angel.
Spike gestured to indicate either the penthouse or the universe in general. "It. Buffy. Her taking a dive. I should've seen it. I coulda told her, but . . ."
"Spike, no one could have predicted what Buffy did. There was no way anyone could have known her blood could substitute for Dawn's to close the portal."
"Not that!" Spike gave a snort of derision. "The specifics don't matter. It was what I saw in her eyes, mate. I knew it would happen someday, but when it did, I was as blind as the rest. I even told her, I warned her, but neither of us put it all together before it was too late."
Angel shook his head as if to clear his vision. "Spike, what in hell are you talking about?"
"Death, you moron. I told her, you know. I told her that the day would come when she'd be wanting it."
"What?!"
Spike didn't appear to notice the thunderclouds in Angel's eyes. "Walking on the edge like a Slayer does, dancing with death, flirting with it, you think they never develop a death wish? Even Buffy had one, only she kept it controlled with her family and her mates. And I watched as it was all stripped away from her. Captain Cardboard was the first to go, her mum died, her so-called father couldn't be bothered to show his face, little sis turned out to not be little sis—you know that when Glory took Dawn, Buffy's brain took a vacation? Willow had to crawl inside her head to bring her back." Spike was pacing, almost talking to himself. "Even you, mate. You'd gone and left her years before. You were only the first to leave.
"And the thing is, I knew it was coming down. I watched as she lost again and again, and I'd told her, you know, months before. I told her, 'Sooner or later, you'll want it.' Told her I'd be there when it happened. Told her . . ." Spike began giggling almost uncontrollably. "I told her it'd be a real good day for me. Then the end came, and I missed seeing it in her eyes. That's what love does. Blind love. The day came, and you know what?" The giggles sounded more like sobs now. "It wasn't a good day, mate. Wasn't a good day at all. 'Cept for her. She probably took death with a smile."
"Stop it!" Angel was in Spike's face, grabbing and shaking him. "Buffy wouldn't have given up. That wasn't her. You know nothing."
"I was there!" Spike yelled back. "I know what I saw. Little Bit was all that mattered to her anymore, and she took death rather than let anything happen to her baby. She welcomed it with open arms . . ."
Angel threw Spike across the room, snarling. "Shut up, Spike!"
"Saw it coming for months," Spike muttered from the floor. "Missed it in the end." He lifted his eyes, and they were suddenly filled with fire. "You wanna hurt me for that? Go right ahead."
And Spike charged. He was too drunk and too angry to make it anything but clumsy, and Angel tossed him aside again. Even drunk, though, Spike was still far more nimble than any human. He sprang to his feet and flew at Angel, fists at the ready. The elder vampire blocked the blows that came his way, then struck Spike in the gut with his own fist. The younger vampire doubled over. Angel grabbed him and shoved him up against one of the windows. The plastic covering made the sunlight filtering through it tolerable, though barely, for both vampires. Spike grabbed a handful of plastic sheet and yanked it aside. Direct sunlight scorched Angel's arm and shoulder, and the elder vampire dropped and rolled away, snarling in pain. When he stood, a bright sunbeam separated the vampires.
"You think I like this?" Spike demanded, gesturing at his chest. "This thing inside me? It hurts! I should've seen it, should've stopped it, should've told her what I saw, but I didn't! I couldn't even stop that Doc from hurting Dawn. If she could've saved Little Bit, she might have held on longer, but she didn't, and it's my fault! And now I've got this . . . this . . ." He tried to think of the right word. "Is this guilt? Is that what it is?" He shook his head. "I don't feel guilt. I'm a demon, you moron! I haven't got a sodding soul to make me feel sodding guilt over a sodding Slayer dying! That's your department, you toothless wonder! I'm Spike. Idiot Watchers call me the Slayer of Slayers. I don't feel guilt because they die! I kill them!" Spike turned, pacing again. "Killed her. Might as well have. Might as well have done her in myself . . ." He held his head in his hands, fighting with his own emotions.
"William."
The name was spoken gently. Spike turned to see Angel, across the sunbeam, crouching down, elbows on his knees. The elder vampire lifted his eyes to his grandchilde. "William."
Angel's eyes were clear, full of naked emotion, as was his voice. For the first time, there were no barriers between the vampires. For the first time, Spike knew exactly what Angel felt, and knew Angel knew what he felt. And he knew Angel felt for him. It was as if Spike could touch the intangible bond that could never be broken between them. All the complex emotions they'd had for each other over the years: animosity, disdain, affection, raw hatred, grudging respect, love.
Spike stood, stock-still, absorbing all of this into his suddenly-clear brain. It was too much, this moment of understanding. He wanted to remember the Angel he despised, the one who despised him. To see the one he loved, would always love, no matter how much he wanted to be free of him . . .
"Bugger this," Spike growled. He removed himself from the penthouse with vampiric swiftness, which still seemed far too slow.
***
The day passed calmly, but with an underlying tension no one could help but feel. Gunn remained in a bad mood for an hour or so, in which time he silently helped Cordelia with her weapons inventory. Not being a champion brooder, however, he came out of it soon enough.
Angel, naturally, was a different story. After his run-in with Spike, he went to his suite and closed the door for several hours. Wesley charitably suggested he might be sleeping.
Around five-thirty, Dawn was sitting on the lobby couch thoroughly engrossed in Guardians of the West by David Eddings when Fred sat down beside her and began talking.
"Can I ask you a question, sparkly girl?"
Dawn shrugged, unsure of what to make of Fred. "Sure."
"Why is it you sparkle? I mean, you remind me of something, but I can't quite remember. You know how it is when your head gets all full of stuff, and you're trying to think of one thing except you think of another? That happens to me a lot." The young woman was nervously twisting her hair around her fingers as words tumbled out of her mouth. "Anyways, I was just wondering why you don't look the same as everybody else, if you don't mind me askin'."
What the heck, thought Dawn. "I'm the Key. I used to be a big blob of energy until some monks made me human."
"Oh!" Fred brightened up considerably. "Oh, that explains everything! I must just be seein' your energy matrix is all. How'd they overcome the difficulties inherent in matter/energy transfer, though? I mean, reducing matter to energy is pretty easy, but turning energy into matter—that takes some doing. You see . . ." And Fred was off and running with an involved explanation of Einsteinian physics, plus a few of her own theories.
Dawn just watched her in awe and absently wondered if Willow would have any idea what the heck this person was talking about. When Fred finally wrapped up her dissertation, Dawn said, "I really don't know how they did it. I just know I'm not really, you know, real."
Fred cocked her head, pixie face creased with confusion. "Now, that I don't get, sweet thing. Energy's just as real as matter, and you seem to be both, so it seems to me you're real. Am I missin' something?"
"I-I don't know." Contemplating her existence had been a full-time occupation for Dawn over the last few months. Fred's information threw everything Dawn had thought out the window. "I mean, when you put it that way, I guess I am real."
"Oh, good," Fred sighed in relief. "I'm so glad. I thought maybe my head was going spinning off in the wrong direction again. Sometimes I can't tell when I'm asleep or when I'm awake. The nightmares, sometimes they seem so real, and I just don't know . . ." She trailed off, the vibrancy she'd gained while discussing physics gone and replaced with a lost expression.
Dawn's heart went out to her. Cordelia had said Fred had been sucked through a portal into a world where demons ruled over humans. The young girl decided that would be enough to make anyone a little crazy. "It's okay," Dawn reassured her. "I have nightmares, too."
"Bad things happen," agreed Fred softly.
Gunn came over. "Okay, Fred, I need your input. We're going to order pizza, but we don't know what you like on yours."
"Pizza? I-I'm not sure I remember pizza." Fred was pulling at her hair again.
"Sure, you do," said Dawn. "It's round and flat, with cheese and meat, like pepperoni . . ."
"Oh!" cried Fred. "You cut it up like triangles? And pepperoni, those are little round things, real spicy? I like those. Mushrooms! I like mushrooms! I remember pizza. I remember pizza, Gunn!" She bounced a little, happy to have recovered another piece, however small, of her past.
Gunn smiled and winked at Dawn. "Sounds good to me. We'll get a large, one half pepperoni and mushroom, and Cordy said you liked Hawaiian, Dawn."
"It's my favorite," confirmed the girl.
"Good. I like both of those. We'll let English and Cordy argue about the other one."
Cordelia and Wesley finally settled on another large, one half cheese (to accommodate Sarah Anne, who didn't like toppings), one half vegetarian, and the order was placed.
Just as the meal wrapped up, Cordelia gasped, hands coming up to her head. Gunn grabbed her just as the vision hit.
"Angel!" shouted Wesley. The vampire was in the lobby so fast no one saw him arrive.
"What's wrong with her?" asked Sandra, voice edged in panic. Fred curled up on the couch and moaned.
"It's a vision," explained Wesley hastily. "She's perfectly all right."
"Speak for yourself," said a weak voice. Cordelia steadied herself against Gunn. "You know that White person Thia told us about, Zina what's-her-nose?"
"Zanita Banerjee?" asked Wesley.
"Yeah. Her. She's in danger out at UCLA. There are some ugly mangy orangish demon dogs hunting her down."
Sandra gasped. Wesley and Angel looked at her.
"What Cordelia said—those dogs?" Sandra had turned white. "Those sound like the things Andrew uses to hunt us down."
Wesley turned to Cordelia again. "I have a course catalog with a map of the campus on the back of it. Could you indicate where all this is taking place? UCLA is a big campus."
"I think so." A few minutes later, Cordelia had done just that, and Angel and Wesley were out the door. Gunn remained behind, as Wesley wanted at least one fighting member of the team with Sandra and Sarah Anne at all times.
Cordelia felt the need to lie down somewhere dark, so Dawn took her upstairs. Sandra and Sarah Anne went with Gunn into the kitchen to do dishes, while Gunn tried valiantly to reassure them they would be safe.
No one at all noticed when Rebecca walked into the lobby, looked around for a moment, shrugged, and then went to the lobby doors. She was holding a small bundle of herbs with a silver chain wrapped around them. With careful precision, she laid the bundle, as well as a small amulet with a glowing stone, on the floor right where the doors met, then chanted softly in Latin. A moment or two later, the bundle and the amulet burst into bright green flames. The flames consumed the herbs in seconds. When they went out, only the chain and the amulet were left, and the light in the amulet's stone had gone out.
Satisfied, Rebecca collected the chain and the amulet and tucked them into her pocket. After that, she went over to the lobby table, picked up Dawn's book, carefully marked the page Dawn had left it open to, and began reading it from the beginning.
***
UCLA was indeed a big place. With, as Angel soon discovered, not nearly enough parking. He growled as he and Wesley hunted for a space.
"I hope we're here in plenty of time," he groused. "The Powers That Be might find themselves circumvented by lack of parking."
Wesley pointed. "Someone's pulling out. Vulture park, Angel!"
The black convertible slid into the space bare seconds after it was vacated, and vampire and former Watcher were on the hunt.
Angel's night vision spotted the demon dogs first, running through a lightly-wooded area of campus. There were three of them, each about the size of a Great Dane, but with oversized fangs and claws and completely devoid of the Great Dane's beauty or dignity. Wesley hefted his crossbow and fired. His aim was perfect, taking one through the throat.
The other two wheeled to face the unexpected attack, snarling. Their strides closed the distance between them and their attackers in seconds, and one was upon Wesley before he could reload. Angel, who had been ready to take on the other, paused long enough to use his battle-axe to slash the throat the one attacking Wesley. In that moment, the second one slipped around them, running toward the Arts building. Angel took off after it as soon as he was sure Wesley was all right.
Zack Hampson was just exiting the building when a snarling, vicious beast nearly mowed him down. The snowboarding enthusiast flattened himself against the door he'd opened, narrowly avoiding the thing. It ran past him, pausing only to howl before running off down the hall. Zack peered after it and was nearly run over again by a large, dark man wielding a blood-covered axe.
"Sorry!" shouted the man as he chased after the beast.
"No problem," said Zack. He shook his head. "Maybe it's time to lay off the weed," he murmured to himself. He turned again, preparing to leave, and was promptly flattened.
The person who'd just run over Zack got to his feet and began apologizing in a British accent. "I'm so terribly sorry," he said, giving Zack a hand up. "Are you quite all right?"
"Just fine," answered Zack absently.
British Guy looked into the building, then back at Zack. "Um, this may sound a bit strange, but the man who just ran in here—tall, dark, with an axe—did you happen to see where he went?"
"To the right. After the . . . thing."
"Much obliged. Thank you!" British Guy took off down the hall.
Zack shook his head again. "Definitely time to lay off the weed."
Angel, meanwhile, had chased the demon dog down three different hallways, narrowly avoiding students and faculty getting out of late classes. He really hated it when these escapades became public, but there was no avoiding it now. The demon dog seemed driven toward a particular destination.
Down another hallway, and a sudden turn to the right, and the demon dog ran into a classroom, Angel close on its heels. The vampire had just enough time to perceive a roar from the dog and a scream from a woman, and then, Angel raised the axe over his head, sighted the dog, and threw the axe forward. The axe buried itself in the demon dog's back, just behind its head, and it fell dead at the feet of the woman it had been attacking.
She looked from the dead demon dog to her rescuer, and Angel looked back at her. Dr. Zanita Banerjee was a remarkably handsome woman, tall and fine-boned, with caramel-colored skin and long, thick black hair touched here and there with silver. Angel estimated her to be in her mid-forties. Her chestnut eyes narrowed as she looked at him.
"Hello," Angel said, feeling he ought to attempt conversation at this point. He stepped forward.
And suddenly couldn't move. Banerjee held her hand out in front of her, palm out. Angel felt as if he was enclosed in crystal.
"Two questions," she said, her English crisp and British but flavored with a slight Indian accent. "First, who is sending a demon dog—one charmed against magery—after me; and second, why has a vampire just saved my life?"
Angel opened his mouth to explain, but was stopped by Wesley skidding into the room. The ex-Watcher assessed the situation quickly.
"Dr. Zanita Banerjee, I presume?" he asked.
"Indeed. And you would be?"
"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce of Angel Investigations. This is my associate, Angel. We've been trying to get in touch with you, Dr. Banerjee."
The mage cocked an eyebrow, a faint trace of amusement in her eyes and mouth. "You appear to have done so."
Wesley looked at Angel. "You needn't be quite so stiff," the ex-Watcher muttered out of the side of his mouth.
"I can't move, Wesley." Angel sounded distinctly irritated. Wesley looked at Banerjee.
"Perhaps it's just my prejudices," she said, very dry, "but I don't find vampires relaxing company, in general terms."
"This vampire is different," Wesley hastened to explain.
"It would appear so." Banerjee approached Angel, looking him over. A puzzled frown settled between her eyes, and she set a hand on his chest. The puzzled look gave way to astonishment. "You have a human soul. How remarkable!"
Angel slumped as her power released him. "Gypsies," was all he said.
"You must have offended them greatly," observed the mage. "To lock a human soul into a vampire . . . I cannot imagine a greater torment." She flicked a glance at the demon dog's corpse. "Yet you have saved my life. There is much about this I wish to know."
"I'm afraid we don't have time," Wesley interjected. "We seek the aid of the White, Dr. Banerjee. A woman and her child have come to us for help, and we think the White may be the best ones to deal with the situation."
Banerjee gave one more look at Angel, still obviously hungry to hear his story, but turned and grabbed a set of keys off the table at the front of the room. "Come with me to my office. These are not matters for discussion where we may be overheard." As she passed the body of the demon dog, she made a slight gesture, and it disappeared.
"Translocation," she explained. "Apparently, the anti-magery charm ended when it died. It's currently in the sewers."
Her office was in the building, and after she shut and locked the door, Wesley explained Sandra's story in short form. Banerjee listened, her expression grave.
"I remember Georges Matsoukis," she said when Wesley finished telling her about Thia's call. "His daughter is correct. This is a situation the Order will be most interested in. Tell me, can you keep the child safe until tomorrow night?"
"We should be able to," said Angel.
"Good. The White must investigate, see how deep this man's crimes run and how he has managed to hide from us, if indeed all you say is true. If a Faery has been enslaved, the consequences could be dire for all magi." Banerjee folded her arms, looking pensive. "Twenty-four hours should be enough time. Come back around this time tomorrow evening, and I will let you know what we have learned and what steps we will take."
"We shall," said Wesley. "Are there any steps you would recommend we take until then?"
"You warded the hotel, which was a good idea." Banerjee rubbed her chin. "Another good idea would be to learn a simple binding spell—you have used magic before, have you not?" Wesley nodded. Banerjee fetched a slim volume from her top shelf and marked a page. "Get an Orb of Ikonos and ready the spell I marked. If Burnham attacks before the White have reached our decision, the spell should bind at least some of his power. Thia's Water Sphere should be of help, too. Let us hope, however, that it will not come to that. I shall ask the White to expedite this matter."
"We appreciate your aid," acknowledged the ex-Watcher. "We will return tomorrow evening for your decision.
***
They stopped at a magic shop on the way home to purchase the spell ingredients they didn't already have. This included the Orb of Ikonos, a crystal sphere about the size of a small apple that glowed with an unearthly radiance and cost an ungodly amount. Wesley could practically hear his credit card shrieking.
When they got back to the Hyperion, Angel seemed a little edgy.
"What's wrong?" asked Wesley.
The vampire glanced over his shoulder as he and his friend approached the front door. "I don't know. I just . . . felt like something was watching me for a second there." He shook it off, and he and Wesley entered the lobby . . .
And were promptly run over from behind by the largest demon dog they'd yet seen. It was the size of a Saint Bernard, with fangs and claws in proportion. Angel leaped to his feet, scanning the lobby. Gunn, Dawn, and Rebecca were all in evidence, and all froze for just a moment as the beast snarled. Dawn was the first to recover, and she did the most sensible thing she could think of: she screamed.
Wesley had retrieved his crossbow and was about to shoot, but as the beast ran to the stairs, it was intercepted by Spike. The younger vampire tackled the thing to the floor, heedless of the claws raking him, and a loud, crunching snap echoed through the lobby as he broke the beast's neck.
"That was fun," the blond commented as he hauled himself to his feet. "What is this thing, anyway?"
"What the hell is going on?" demanded Cordelia from the top of the stairs. She was joined immediately by Sandra.
"Oh, God," whispered the woman. "It's one of his hounds."
"Bad Thing," hissed Fred from beside the stairs.
"Are you okay, Spike?" asked Dawn.
Gunn turned to Wesley. "I thought you said those witches did something to keep demons out of here."
"They did." Wesley blinked. "I don't understand."
"Dr. Banerjee said they were charmed against magery," said Angel. "Could they have also been charmed against witchcraft?"
Wesley shook his head. "She said they were controlled by witchcraft. There's no way they could be charmed against it at the same time. It shouldn't have been able to cross the threshold."
Angel turned around, sniffing at the air. He walked back to the front doors, a puzzled expression on his face, and stooped low, still sniffing. "There's a familiar smell here," he murmured. Abruptly, he turned, approaching different people in the lobby. When he got to Rebecca, he stopped, leaning in close and smelling her.
His face darkened. One hand was suddenly in her pocket, and the vampire fished a silver chain and an amulet out of it. "Wesley, this look familiar to you?"
Wesley came over and examined it. Rebecca looked from one to the other nervously. Her uncle suddenly turned on her, tightly controlled anger in his face.
"Rebecca," he said slowly, "what have you done?"
"Nothing, Uncle Wesley," she insisted. "Nothing bad, anyway. I found a spell, one that's supposed to work against magi, and I thought it would be useful."
"So you just performed it without consulting one of us?" Wesley's voice was deadly quiet. "Rebecca, those spells Willow and Tara placed on the building were carefully balanced. That's why we got experienced witches to place them. Who knows what effect your spell has had on that balance? It's quite possibly corrupted every protection spell on this building."
Rebecca went pale. Her mouth opened, then shut.
"Nice work there," said Spike. "Any other helpful ideas?"
"Shut up, Spike," Wesley snapped. "Cordelia, get Willow on the phone. She may have some ideas for reinstating their spells."
"Sh-should Sarah Anne and I leave?" asked Sandra from the stairs. She was shaking, tears in her eyes.
"No," said Wesley. "Even without the wards, this is still the most defensible place. We'll find out how to restore the spells."
"Wesley?" called Cordelia from the office. She pointed at the phone in her hand. "Willow."
Wesley went into the office, followed by Angel. In a few minutes, all three returned to the lobby. Wesley approached Sandra.
"Willow said she and Tara ought to be able to restore most of the spells from where they are, though it'll take a few hours. Angel and Spike are still here, as well as Gunn. They should be able to handle anything that happens tonight. From what Dr. Banerjee said, we only need to keep you safe for the next twenty-four hours, which is when the White will have made their decision."
"You're not going to stay?" asked Sandra.
"No." Wesley's face was stony. "I've other matters to take care of." His gaze flicked to Rebecca, who was standing a few feet away, looking miserable. "Angel, call me if anything happens, or if you learn anything new. Rebecca, it's time to go." He turned and left.
Rebecca followed him, eyes downcast. As she reached the front doors, she turned back to face the cold stares aimed at her.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled, and followed her uncle outside.
Not a word was said on the drive back to Wesley's apartment. Rebecca spared her uncle a few sidelong glances, and what she saw was not at all comforting. Her stomach roiled.
I've done it this time, she thought. I've really done it. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
They remained in silence until the door to Wesley's apartment clicked shut. Words overflowed from within Rebecca.
"I can explain, Uncle Wesley, I really can."
"So can I." Wesley's voice was clipped, cold. "You walked into a situation you knew little about but imagined yourself to be an expert on because of your book learning. You were arrogant enough to believe yourself to be the equal of those who had been in the field, and rather than consulting them, you did something on your own which could very well turn out to be disastrous."
"I was only trying to help, Uncle Wesley. I wasn't trying to go behind anyone's back, really, but everyone was gone when I finished the spell preparations. I was just trying to prove I could be useful."
"This isn't about you!" There was heat in Wesley's voice again. Rebecca flinched. "Rebecca, what we do here is save lives, save souls. This isn't some Watcher training scenario; this is real. Sandra and Sarah Anne are in very real danger. Their only hope is for us to keep them safe until an arcane organization reaches a decision, and it's a thin hope indeed. Your actions have created an even more dangerous situation."
"I'm sorry," Rebecca whispered, throat tight, nausea nearly overwhelming her. "I only wanted to help."
"Intention is seldom as important as results, and 'I'm sorry' helps nothing. You hid your actions from me; you've been dishonest with your parents about where you are. I don't believe you to be trustworthy, and we cannot afford that. I believe it's time for you to return to England, Rebecca."
No, please no, thought Rebecca frantically, but she was unable to speak. To her horror, she realized she was going to throw up. Not here, not now. Can't show him how weak I am . . .
It was too much. She ran to the bathroom, barely able to pull her hair back before vomiting into the toilet. Violent spasms shook her as she retched again and again. They seemed to pass, and she sagged, stomach clenching. Without warning, another spasm took her.
This time, someone else's hands pulled her hair back, gently rubbed her back as she gagged and coughed and finally was still. Those same hands lifted her to the counter and turned on cold water in the sink. As she rinsed her mouth, Rebecca heard the toilet flush. A washcloth appeared under the stream of water.
Wesley wrung out the washcloth and used it to wipe the sweat and tears away from his niece's face. When she was able to raise her eyes to his, she saw not contempt, not disgust, only concern. It nearly broke her.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry. I can't do anything right."
"Rebecca, what is this? What's happening with you?"
She couldn't answer, and Wesley placed an arm around her shoulders and guided her back to the living room, where he sat beside her on the couch.
She didn't even realize she was muttering, "Stupid, can't do anything right, you always say the wrong thing, stupid," under her breath until her uncle said, "Those aren't your words, are they?"
Rebecca couldn't answer. She didn't need to.
"Whose words are they?" questioned Wesley gently. "Your Watcher's?"
"No!" Rebecca looked at her uncle. "No, Madeleine was wonderful. She never said anything like that to me. Not like . . . not like Mother."
Wesley looked grave and a little angry. Embeth Martin-Pryce's temper was legendary in the Pryce clan, but very few would have thought it could be aimed at her own daughter. "Is that why you came here, then? To get away from the family?"
"Partially," Rebecca admitted. "The thing is, Uncle Wesley, while I was a Slayer-in-Waiting, I was a bit of a celebrity in our family. We haven't had many, you know, and no Slayers. Mother and Father would trot me out for parties, and if I felt like a bit of a display piece, it almost made up for my social clumsiness. And besides, I had Madeleine."
"I take it you and your Watcher were close, then."
"We were." Rebecca smiled softly. "Madeleine was always so encouraging. I had an aptitude for the physical skills required of a Slayer-in-Waiting. I'm a good fighter, Uncle Wesley, I really am, and while I was sparring with Madeleine, learning new skills, I felt like nothing else mattered. And we could talk, we'd talk about everything, it seemed. I practically lived with her for nearly five years, only going home for holidays and the occasional weekend."
Wesley's eyes were sympathetic. "But you had to leave her after you stopped being a Slayer-in-Waiting."
Rebecca nodded, throat tight with still-bitter pain. "I tried so hard not to cry when I was packing my things, but I started when I hugged her goodbye and didn't stop until the train pulled into London. I felt like I was leaving the only real parent I had."
She looked up at her uncle, warmed by the compassion in his eyes. "I was thirteen when Buffy Summers was Called. That wasn't so bad; I was very young, and although my parents were a bit outraged that an untrained American had been Chosen, they could blame the fact that I wasn't on my age. Very few Slayers are Called at thirteen.
"Then, when Kendra was Called, I was fourteen. Again, it was understandable; Kendra had been trained practically since infancy, and Sam Zabuto, her Watcher, was highly respected. There was much talk about how we finally had a 'proper' Slayer, one who would last far longer than that renegade, Buffy Summers.
"She didn't, of course. She was killed barely a year after being Chosen. I was fifteen, the prime age for being Called, but the honor went to Faith."
The bitterness in Rebecca's voice seemed to startle Wesley. "Surely your parents couldn't blame you for not being Chosen. No one knows the criteria the Powers That Be use to Call Slayers."
"But whatever they were, Faith met them . . . and I didn't." Rebecca looked down at her hands. She realized that at some point, her uncle must have slipped a tissue into her hands, and she was slowly shredding it. "When word came back to the Watchers about Faith's activities, I was home for a holiday. The question followed me wherever I went: What was so wrong with me that Faith would have been Chosen before me?"
Wesley's eyes grew wide. "Surely they didn't say that to you!"
"It wasn't spoken. It was never spoken." Rebecca grimaced. "You know how we are. But it was there nonetheless. I was so grateful to go back to Madeleine after that visit. I threw myself into my training in the vain hope that somehow, I, too, would be Called. I tried not to think about the fact that that would require the death of another young woman.
"And another year passed, and another, and no new Slayer was Called, and my eighteenth birthday was looming. I knew that once I turned eighteen, I would be removed from the rolls of the Slayers-in-Waiting, and Madeleine would be reassigned. I realized I might never see her again, and the idea of going back to my family was . . ." She trailed off. "But then I heard about you, my uncle, once the family's golden boy, now the black sheep."
Wesley had to grin at that description. So did Rebecca as she went on. "I thought that if anyone might understand, it would be you. I wanted to prove I could do something right." She shook her head. "I guess I proved otherwise."
"And the vomiting?"
"It's just something I do." She shrugged. "Ever since I was a child, when I get upset, I throw up. Disgusting, I know." Rebecca looked at her uncle again. "I truly am sorry, Uncle Wesley. I'll have my ticket changed, go back to England."
Wesley looked pensive. "You know, Rebecca, Faith was a remarkably talented Slayer. She had extraordinary skills. It's just that . . . mistakes were made. Many of them by me. I, too, walked into a situation I knew nothing about, ignored the advice of my betters, and made choices that led to disaster. People lost their lives, and a young girl nearly lost her soul—until Angel saved it just in time."
He forced his niece to meet his eyes. "I said before we save souls here. I believe . . . I believe part of yours needs saving, Rebecca. Or at least your spirit. You should stay with us."
Tears filled Rebecca's eyes. "But—but the others," she choked out.
"Will understand. There's not one of us who hasn't needed a second chance at some point. It's all right, Rebecca. It will be all right."
There were no words to express Rebecca's feelings at that moment, so she just cried as her uncle held her.
***
Cordelia walked into the office to find Angel sitting at the desk, face dark.
"Brooding again?" she asked. "This is so not the time, Angel."
"I'm thinking," he said. "Something's wrong here."
"Yeah. Evil magi, big ugly demon dogs, and Wesley's niece."
Angel shook his head. "No, that's not it. Not entirely." He looked up at Cordelia. "Three demon dogs were sent after the one person in town who might be able to stop Andrew Burnham. Another was sent here, conveniently just after our protection spells were compromised. You remember Sandra's story the first time she came here?"
Cordelia shrugged. "Most of it, yeah. I've heard it multiple times."
"There was one detail she told us that she missed when she told her story to Thia: Andrew could find things in the house without looking for them."
A sudden, confusing revelation swept over Cordelia. "You mean . . ."
"He's got the farsight, like Thia. He's known where Sandra and Sarah Anne have been the whole time he's been chasing them."
Cordelia shook her head. "But if that's true, why hasn't he caught them?"
"I don't know," Angel admitted, looking even more grave. "But I have the feeling we need to find out—now."