"Heads up, B!" Faith planted her foot in the small of the vampire's back and shoved. The stunned demon lurched toward Buffy. The blond Slayer dropped her shoulder and pushed up with her legs. She caught the vampire's mid-section and vaulted the creature into the air. The fiend turned a slow, almost elegant flip and came down flat on her back. Buffy knelt and staked her. The Slayer stood, looking down at the dusty outline for a beat, then her hand shot out and grabbed the shirt of another vampire. The creature had thought to attack her while her attention was diverted, and he was about to pay. Buffy yanked him forward, sweeping his feet out from under him with her leg and flinging him away to her left, where Faith waited. The vampire skidded to a halt and tried to scramble to its feet. Faith stepped over, straddling its back. Her arms locked around the creature's head and twisted. There was a sound like an icicle snapping off an eave and the vampire screamed once and expired.

Faith spun, looking for Buffy. The blond Slayer was battling the last vamp. He was tougher than the other two combined. He was actually managing to fend off some of Buffy's punches and land a few of his own. Faith sprinted toward them, drawing a stake as she did so. Buffy blocked an overhand punch, caught the wrist and executed a lighting-fast pivot that flipped the vampire over her shoulder. The demon landed hard, but managed to kick upward with both feet. Buffy leaned back, giving the creature enough time to flip to its feet. She brought both fists up in defensive position as it advanced in a crouch, fangs bared, yellow eyes gleaming.

The vampire felt a light tap on its shoulder and turned. Faith's fist smashed into its jaw, snapping its head around. The vampire shook its head and gathered itself to meet Faith's attack. She grinned and beckoned to it. The creature opened its mouth to roar and Buffy's flying kick caught it in the back of the head. The demon sank to its knees and the two Slayers staked it simultaneously.

Faith threw back her head and howled. "Wooooo-hooooo!" She held up a hand. "Don't leave me up high, B." Buffy gave her a high five. Faith's face contorted in fierce grin. "Let the wild rumpus begin!" She was breathing fast.

"Okay there wild thing," Buffy said. "It's time to throttle back."

The maniacal grin stayed plastered to Faith's face. "Come on, can't you feel it? We just kicked their asses." She spun around, arms flung wide. "Hear that, undead? That's the sound of your coffin slamming shut. Your ass is grass and we. Are. The. Lawnmower!"

Buffy smiled in spite of herself as she took Faith's arm. "Come on Pink Ranger. I think it's time for us to go home."

***

Oz held back the curtain and peered through the window. He craned his neck, looking for the moon, which always drew his attention when he scrutinized the night sky.

"Penny for your thoughts," Willow said behind him.

"You overpay." Oz dropped the curtain and turned away from the window. Willow sat at his desk, her mouth graced by that small enigmatic smile that he knew so well. He stared at her for a long moment. Willow held his gaze for a beat, then looked down at the desk. Her hand fiddled with a pen.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"You," he said. "What else is there to look at?" She blushed a furious red. Oz stifled a smile. "I thought you might be out patrolling with Buffy and Faith."

"No." Willow's face darkened. "The air is getting a little rare around the dynamic duo."

"Holy green-eyed monster, Batman." Oz sat down on the bed. "Does jealousy rear its ugly head?"

Willow sulked. "No. At least, I don't think so. It's just... I don't know. A couple of months ago Buffy was all like 'I'm so confused' and 'what does it mean to be the Slayer', and whose shoulder was there? Mine. Who was on her side when we found out Angel was back? Me. Again." Willow held up a hand. "Not that I'm keeping score girl here, but it just, it... Did I make any demands on her, or ask why she flaked on us? No. I tried to be the accepting, nurturing best friend."

"Which you were."

"Darn tootin' I was. When she was all Nell, who was her anchor girl? Me." Willow scowled as she looked at her hand, which was clenched in a tight fist. "And then Faith comes along and all of a sudden it's 'Let's do extra training' and "Let's patrol until dawn.' All of a sudden she's the Little Engine That Could and I'm... I don't know what I am."

Oz nodded, a sober expression on his face. "Well, if it helps any, I'm still pretty fond of you. Besides, I thought you liked Faith."

"I do, or at least I don't dislike her." Willow got up from her chair and began to pace the room. "Oh sure, I've picked up a stake in anger, but I don't know what it's like to be the Slayer, you know, to have the super strength and the speed and the tingly feeling around the vamps. Faith does."

"And you're afraid that gives her a bond with Buffy that you'll never be able to share." Oz scratched his forehead.

"Sort of."

"And that your friendship with Buffy will suffer because of it."

Willow winced. "Does that make me small and petty?"

"No." Oz got up from the bed and crossed the room. As he held her close his glance fell on the guitar case propped against the wall. "What if another beautiful genius with a budding interest in witchcraft moves into town? If you start hanging with her, does that mean you're not Buffy's friend anymore?"

"No," Willow said, her voice muffled as her face pressed into his shoulder.

"Maybe the Slayer thing isn't about a deeper friendship than you have-maybe it's like me meeting someone who likes music. We can talk about music, debate it, maybe have the same favorite bands, even jam together. But it doesn't mean we know each other on any kind of deep level. We just have one big thing in common. Maybe that's why Buffy's spending time with Faith. She's been through a lot. Maybe with Faith she doesn't have to think about that. It's uncomplicated." He stepped back, his hand resting on Willow's shoulder. "But if things get bad, I bet I know who she'll run to."

Willow sniffled and wiped the back of her hand across her nose. "Thanks." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm, uh, I'm going to get something to drink? You want?"

"Sure." As she headed down the hallway, Oz sank into the chair. He looked at the guitar case. "Good advice," he said aloud in the empty room. "Why don't you take it?"

***

Buffy stuck her head inside the door to the guestroom. "Hey, Faith, rise and shine." The heap of blankets in the middle of the bed twisted back and forth as a low moaning sound issued forth. Then the heap grew still.

"Come on," Buffy said as she crossed the room. She leaned down and grabbed Faith's shoulder. "It's time for breakfast."

She jerked back in the nick of time to avoid the fist that came whistling out of the covers. It was hard to tell what Faith was saying in that hoarse mumble, but Buffy was pretty sure she recognized a few choice profanities. Faith's tantrum subsided. She knelt in the middle of the bed, her hair a wild tangle, her big dark eyes blinking as she rubbed a hand across her face.

"I'll see you downstairs," Buffy said. "Shake it or we'll be late. If you need something to wear, mi closet is su closet." Faith nodded and Buffy beat the retreat.

Faith stumbled into the kitchen twenty minutes later, her hair still wet from the shower. She wore a red spaghetti-strap top of Buffy's. It was midriff-baring on Buffy; on the taller Slayer it revealed a very healthy expanse of velvety skin. "Good morning," Joyce said in a cheery voice. "How many pancakes would you like?"

"What?" Faith said.

"Mom has pulled out all the breakfasty stops for you," Buffy said.

Faith squeezed her forehead between the heels of her hands. "Do you have any black coffee?"

"Sure." Buffy got up from the table and poured a cup. Faith blew on it for a moment, then took a long gulp and closed her eyes.

"So," Joyce said, "how about those pancakes?"

Faith pried her eyes open and looked at Buffy's mother over the rim of her mug. "No offense, Mrs. Summers, but this isn't exactly my high calorie time of day."

"Well, everyone needs a good breakfast." Joyce shoveled pancakes onto a plate. "What do you usually have?"

Faith raised her cup. "You're looking at it."

"The only thing you have for breakfast is coffee?" Joyce looked horrified as she placed the plate on the table.

Faith shrugged. The caffeine was evidently doing its job. "Sometimes there's cold pizza. The odd leftover burrito." She poked at the pancakes with a fork, a wary look on her face, and decided that they might not be fatal. She cut off a wedge and chewed. "Not bad," she said as she swallowed. "But it's pretty hard to make these when all you've got is a hot plate." She made quick work of the pancakes and finished her coffee. "Thanks, Mrs. Summers." Faith turned to Buffy. "Gotta brush my teeth. Back in a minute."

"Mom, what are our plans for Thanksgiving?" Buffy rested her chin on her folded hands.

"I thought we'd do the usual." Joyce began clearing the kitchen. "Sleep late, go to aunt Iris's for dinner, try to stay awake for the drive home. It is the Summers tradition."

"What if we changed the Summers tradition?" Buffy looked at her mother.

"Changed it how?" Joyce asked as she scraped something off a plate into the disposal.

"Oh, maybe stayed home and had some friends over for our own Thanksgiving." Buffy raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a beseeching look.

Joyce smiled. "Would these friends be named Faith and Lindsay?" She gave her daughter a quick hug. "I think it's a great idea. I think Iris will understand. Why don't you see if they want to come?"

***

Delilah took a moment to smooth her skirt and straighten her jacket before she knocked on the door. Her clothing was fine, but her psyche needed the pause. She raised her hand, hesitated, and then knocked once, softly.

"Come in."

She opened the door and entered the room. Mr. Trick's private quarters looked very different from his office. The walls were deep burgundy and the floor rosewood with purpleheart inlay. The furniture was black and wall sconces provided a diffuse illumination.

Mr. Trick stood in the large open space in the middle of the room, barefoot, clad in black silk pants. He moved through the prescribed movements of the kata with the grace of oil flowing across polished steel. He completed the action, then turned to Delilah, a film of sweat coating his chiseled upper body. "Yes?" he said.

Delilah glanced around, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Mr. Trick had decorated his abode with dozens of mirrors of all sizes. It was his macabre joke; the room was reflected back on itself hundreds of times, yet neither its inhabitant nor his guests ever saw themselves.

"I, uh, I wanted to tell you that we have some unhappy campers in the tac squad." She tried not to look at the mirrors.

"Yes, I imagine we do." Trick picked up a black towel and began wiping off his chest and upper arms. "I'm not ecstatic myself. Those two little bitches have used up my interest and are starting to eat into my principle."

"Sir?" Delilah asked.

Trick dabbed at his forehead. "The plan was to turn townspeople fast enough to keep the Slayer occupied. Problem is, we now have two Slayers and they're both very good. They killed everyone we turned and now they're starting on our soldiers." He covered his face with the towel for a moment, blotting up perspiration. The towel came down. "That's bad for morale and bad for efficiency." He looked at Delilah. "Call a meeting for this afternoon. Everyone in attendance. Tell Quisling I need him to take a meeting with the Mayor and, as much as he hates it, with our crazy friend across town." Trick pulled the string on his pants and they fell to the floor, the black silk puddling at his feet. "Delilah?"

"Yes?" she said, pulling her eyes up to meet his gaze.

"Get started now. I'm going to shower." As she quick-walked out of the room, he grinned. It was a grin fit for a devil.

***

"This isn't the right book." The stocky boy with the angular glasses and lank hair held out the work in question, daring Giles to contradict him.

"Damn." The librarian's epithet was so soft it might merely have been the release of pent-up breath. He shook his head as he went back to the stacks, book in hand. He slid the volume back into place and stood there for a few seconds, eyes closed. Then he took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and went to get the proper book. "Here you go," he said, sliding it across the counter. "Sorry about that."

The boy shrugged. "It's okay." He tucked the book under his arm and left.

"Are you all right?" Lindsay Maeda came out of the office.

"No," Giles said as he turned to her. "I am most definitely not all right."

Lindsay crossed the small space between them. "Mr. Giles, I'm sure that this will all be resolved. I can't believe the Watcher's Council would be swayed by this sort of argument. It has to be a momentary blip. They will come to their senses. They'll realize what a wonderful job you're doing."

Giles looked down into her brown almond eyes. Her expression was one of utter trust and faith. He breathed a heavy sigh. "Ms. Maeda... Lindsay. Exactly what do you know about Gerard?"

Lindsay shrugged. "They use some of his books in training, and I heard a lot of stories about him."

Giles nodded. "Gerard Roland was the envy of everyone in our training group. He was the smartest, the best read, the quickest on his feet, and in a just world he would be Buffy's Watcher."

Lindsay nodded, lips pursed. "The stories usually mention a friend of his, a Rupert Giles."

The librarian squinted as though in pain. "That was a very long time ago. I'm sure the tales have grown quite romantic in the telling. My point is this: If Gerard has a flaw, it is his unfailing optimism. Not only is his glass always half full, there is also a waiter on the way with a pitcher." Giles took a deep breath. "If he was concerned enough to come here without Council sanction to warn us, then I believe the situation is very grave."

Lindsay's brows drew together in puzzlement. "That's what he said."

Giles shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I believe the case is worse than he realizes. It is Gerard's nature to underestimate danger." The librarian leaned back against the counter. "Some of the names he mentioned last night... Some of these people are so noncommittal that they still have a wait and see policy toward the Reformation. If they are even listening to this rubbish, then these extremists already exert a great deal of influence."

The door opened and Gerard Roland entered the library. He wore a denim shirt with the cuffs turned back. He stopped just inside the room and held his arms out wide, smiling as he looked at them. "Ah, Rupert, where else would I find you but in your beloved stacks?"

"Yes, well, it is my job, and one that I'm not doing very well at the moment." Giles glanced at Lindsay.

"Then you should be happy to see me. It is a gorgeous day, and I have come to take you from this dusty repository and treat you to lunch."

Giles nodded and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Thank you for the offer, but I do have a job here and school officials take a very dim view of slipping away in the middle of the day for a leisurely off-campus lunch."

Gerard's eyes twinkled. "Who said anything about a leisurely lunch?"

Giles looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "Your lunches are always leisurely."

"But it is a beautiful day and I have already made plans." Gerard turned to Lindsay. "If I cannot coax Rupert away from his beloved books, might I persuade you to join me?"

Lindsay looked from Gerard to Giles. "Me? I don't... I..."

Giles smiled and shook his head. "Go. I'm terrible company and I'm sure that the meal will be spectacular."

"If you're sure..." Lindsay was already halfway around the desk. "I'll see you later this afternoon."

***

"Miss Rosenberg."

Willow shivered as the nasal buzzsaw of Principal Snyder's voice sliced through her spine. He held a file in his right hand and wore a displeased expression on his face.

"Yes sir?" Willow said.

"Miss Rosenberg, you have participated in our peer tutoring program before. I would like to call on you again."

Willow hugged her books to her. "But Principal Snyder, I'm really busy this year. There are lots of other people in the tutoring program."

"Yes, but you did such an excellent job filling in for Miss Calendar that I think you're the person to call on." Snyder made an attempt at a smile. The result left Willow feeling a little ill. "This case calls for your special talents."

"Someone's failing computer science?"

Snyder smacked the file against his thigh. "He's failing everything. If we keep a score in it, he's below grade. Science, math, history, literature..." Snyder chuckled. "In a perverse way, it's quite an impressive achievement. Even most of the dullards around here have at least one subject they manage to pass."

Willow shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I'm flattered that you thought of me, but--"

"No buts, Miss Rosenberg." Was it her imagination or did he roll the first 'r' just a little? "Mr. Pittman has already been informed that you will be his tutor." The principal thrust a slip of paper at her. "After school tomorrow, that room." He spun on his heel and marched away. Willow looked at the paper and scowled. She started to crumple it into a ball, then shook her head and slipped it into her pocket.

***

Lindsay leaned back and shook her head, feeling the autumn sunlight warm on her hair. "I had no idea that when you mentioned lunch you were talking about a picnic," she said.

"But a restaurant is so pedestrian." Gerard Roland plucked a grape from its stem and popped it into his mouth. "Soon the weather will be unfit for such an excursion. Already it is too cold in Montreal." He smiled. "And the sun plays so beautifully upon your hair."

"Thank you." Lindsay ducked her head.

"I am sorry. I have embarrassed you." Gerard leaned forward. "Can you forgive me?"

"Don't be silly." Lindsay raised her head and bushed her hair back with one hand. "It was very sweet."

"I simply find myself carried away. Here you are, assigned to a Slayer and so young and beautiful."

An ambivalent smile twitched on Lindsay's lips. "I certainly feel young."

Gerard frowned. "How so?"

Lindsay sighed, staring off into space. "Faith. She needs so much guidance."

"All Slayers need guidance. Without us, their gifts grow untamed and unfocused."

Lindsay shook her head. "Faith is... special. I feel like more than a Watcher or a guide to her. Sometimes... Sometimes I think that I'm the only functional adult she's ever seen. I'm her only example of what she could be."

Gerard nodded. "That must be a great deal of pressure."

Lindsay looked at him. "She thinks I'm so much smarter than I am. Everyone else in her life has failed her. I can't."

Gerard leaned over and placed his hand over hers. "You will not fail her."

Lindsay's laugh was bitter. "I wish I felt that way. I think I've constructed this hard outer shell, this carapace over all my insecurities and fears, that everyone thinks is invulnerable, but I know it's just a thin, brittle barrier. One day it's going to break."

Gerard scooted next to her. It felt so natural for her head to rest on his shoulder as his arm encircled her shoulders. "Do not be afraid," he said. "You are human. Faith will realize that. You are carrying far too much weight upon your shoulders. This is a burden you will not be able to bear."

"Then what do I do?" Lindsay asked.

He looked down at her, at her black, wind-blown hair and her lovely dark eyes. He smiled, a devilish, c'est la vie smile. "You lay it down."

***

Cordelia leaned back and let the hot water pound down on her head. It poured over her hair and ran down her face, plastering her hair against her skull. Steam rose in clouds around her. Rivulets streamed from her shoulders, coursing down her back and sliding along her legs. She scrubbed soap into her skin until she was covered in lather, then bowed her head under the flow and let it sluice away the suds. She began with a fresh bar of Neutrogena; when she was finished it was a slippery, translucent oval. She stayed under the spray until it grew tepid, then she turned the water off and opened the door of the shower stall.

Cordelia wrapped a towel around her head and another around her torso and went into the locker room. Skyler Paine was the only girl left and she was zipping her bag closed. Cordelia dropped her towels and stepped into her underwear as Skyler left. She shook out her hair, then took her dryer from the top shelf of her locker, carried it to the mirror and plugged it into one of the outlets. White noise enveloped her as she began running the fingers of her right hand through her thick tresses. When her hair was almost dry, she switched off the dryer. She stood there, appliance in hand, studying her reflection in the mirror. She tilted her head to one side, then the other before returning to her locker and replacing the dryer on the shelf. She slipped the sleeveless yellow tunnel-neck top over her head and flipped her hair free, then pulled on a pair of flat-front slim-fit navy pants. She sat down on the stool in front of the locker and took out her shoes.

In Cordelia's mind the shoes pretty much told the story of her life at the present moment. Under normal conditions this outfit included a great pair of matching wedgies, but these were not normal conditions. Her feet had healed following her deep-woods ordeal, but the skin was still blotchy. That nixed the sandals. Instead, she was reduced to wearing a pair of navy-blue Adidas Superstars. Not that they were bad shoes, far from it. In fact, if Cordelia were pressed, she would concede that the sneakers gave the ensemble a certain retro-geek-skatepunk-urban slant. Which was all well and good, but these were not the shoes that were supposed to go with this outfit. Cordelia sighed and finished tying the laces, then picked up her backpack to go.

"You still here?" Ms. Hollis came through the door. She wore a gray T-shirt and baggy black shorts. Sweat glistened on her skin and darkened the back and under the arms of the shirt. She reached up and freed her hair from the ponytail she wore, twisting the scrunchie loose in one deft motion. She slipped the elastic band onto her wrist and knelt, fingers working at the knot of her basketball shoes. Cordelia realized that the teacher had tied her keys through the laces. Ms. Hollis noticed the girl's stare.

"Old ghetto trick," she said as she stood. "You never want to leave your keys lying around on the playground." She unlocked the office door. "You want a soda?"

"I'd better get going." Cordelia hitched up her backpack.

"Anything wrong?" Ms. Hollis asked.

"Not that I know of." Cordelia headed for the door.

"Could have fooled me." Ms. Hollis leaned against the door of her office. "You've been distant and snippy in practice and you've practically turned this long-shower-and-leave-last thing into a fetish." She reached up and ruffled her hair, making it fluff into a springy mass.

Cordelia's spine stiffened. "I'm fine."

Ms. Hollis nodded. "You know, it's not weakness to trust your friends when you need them. If something happened to you, you need to get help."

It felt as though a lit match had been shoved up Cordelia's nose and her throat was suddenly clogged by something thick and painful. Her eyes burned. Ms. Hollis's image wavered in front of her. It took all her willpower, but Cordelia somehow swallowed whatever was choking her and managed to croak out, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Matti Hollis nodded. "Well, when you do, I'll be here. In my office." She went inside and closed the door behind her. Cordelia's knees trembled for a moment, then she rushed out of the locker room.